


Tag and Other Backyard Games

by The Manwell (Manniness)



Series: Two out of Three [2]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M, Other, POV, Post-Canon, Preventer agents, Preventers, Same-Sex Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-06-10 15:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6963436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/The%20Manwell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three years with the Preventers, Agent Chang Wufei finds himself in need of a new partner.  What he gets is Hilde Schbeiker, and as for their first assignment: some idiot stalker fancies himself Foreign Minister Relena Darlian’s soul mate.  Oh, Wufei’s life is just wonderful.</p><p>Wufei POV, Sequel to Two out of Three</p><p>Pairings: Some mystery arrangement involving Wufei Chang (you’ll love it; trust me) + established Duo/Trowa + established Hilde/??</p><p>Rating: T</p><p>Warnings: Bombs and bombings, language, assorted violence, same-sex pairings, Wufei being pissy 24/7</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rubber Bullets and Good Friends

**Author's Note:**

> A NOTE ABOUT TooT-verse CHARACTER NAMES:  
> Gerald Yukitani (a.k.a. Heero Yuy)  
> Joseph “JC” Cross (a.k.a. Duo Maxwell)  
> Tristan Armstrong (a.k.a. Trowa Barton/Noname/Nanashi)
> 
> More pointless ramblings from the author:  
> Actually, I got the idea for this story many years ago. It wasn’t until I started writing Two out of Three that I finally knew what I was going to do with it. So, here it goes…!
> 
> Book cover by Sarasan of Patreon: www.patreon.com/user?u=946255&ty=a  
> A.K.A. t_shirt1x2 of LJ: t_shirt1x2.livejournal.com

The explosion rocked the cars parked along the street, blowing away anything and everything smaller and less tenacious than the average alley cat.  The cats themselves had long since followed their sense of self-preservation and scattered.  It was a lamentable (but not unexpected) pity that many of the bystanders did not possess similar inclinations.

A mushroom cloud of smoke and flame belched up from the interior of a nearby parked car.  Its owner had foolishly left the windows down because, apparently, the weather forecast had not called for homemade explosives and a 90% chance of random insanity.  How disappointing.  The Doppler was wrong yet again.

I’d seen more impressive displays of combustion in my time.  In fact, during the war, I had personally ignited more than a few.  However, in this day and age, bomb-wielding civilians were rare, thus spontaneous combustion on city streets was rare.  So, naturally, both would occur as I made my way home from work after a 14-hour shift.

I leaned away from the shrapnel-imbedded vehicle that was serving as my cover and fired a shot at the lunatic in the street.  As my initial announcement of “Preventers!  Put your hands in the air!” had been answered with a flaming projectile at the car that was now smoldering in the street, I discarded conversation for something a bit more communicative: my gun.

I wasn’t even sure if I was firing at a man or a woman.  The blue-feathered bird suit completely disguised the homicidal moron’s identity.  It also had the morbid side effect of making every handmade bomb that the perpetrator lobbed at the windows of nearby buildings and parked cars seem like free merchandise tossed to sports fans by an enthusiastic team mascot.

The bullet just missed the bird bomber as the creature suddenly launched into a manic dance in the middle of the detritus-littered street.  Or perhaps it was an epileptic seizure.  There was no point in hoping for the latter; there did not exist enough dumb luck in the universe for that to be the case.

Taking aim yet again, I fired another of those damnable synthetic bullets the Preventers insisted on using in place of actual lead.  Yes, we were all friends now that our police force used air-pressure-propelled “rubber” bullets.  Of course, _this_ was the cause of the city’s recent crime-wave.  The policy change had been whole-heartedly embraced by the public, and even more so by the criminals.  And only when the public accepted the logic of this would we be given our _real_ firearms back.

I was not holding my breath, however.

This bullet found its mark and my mouth stretched into a grim smile of satisfaction as the bomber crashed to the street in a blur of fluffy blue polyester feathers.  Before he could do anything more ambitious than twitch, I’d already charged into the street and successfully dragged the bag of explosives beyond his reach.

Gun still trained on the perpetrator, I barked, “Preventers!  Stay down with your hands where I can see them!”

The suit twitched, but I’d had more than enough time to accomplish my goal.  Descending on the sprawled individual, I pinned each arm in its bulky sleeve with a booted foot and ignored how ridiculous I looked, straddling a lunatic in a crayon-blue bird suit.  The indignity couldn’t be helped; it just wasn’t feasible to attempt applying handcuffs properly due to the costume’s bulk.  If I’d had a partner I could trust, taking the imbecile into custody wouldn’t have been an issue.

I gritted my teeth and resigned myself to handing the situation over to the local police.  I reached for my cell phone.

The perpetrator inside the costume chose that precise moment to finally come around.  He yanked forcibly at his trapped arms.

I growled, “These bullets might not have been designed with the intent to kill, but they can and will make you wish you were dead.  Continue resisting arrest and you’ll discover exactly how that’s possible.”

The birdman heaved a great sigh of defeat and smacked his stuffed beak and plastic eyes into the pavement.  This time, when I reached for my cell phone, I was not interrupted as I keyed my ID number and the corresponding situation code into a text message and sent it off to Preventer Dispatch.  The perpetrator continued to wiggle restlessly inside the costume.  Perhaps he was allergic to polyester.  Now _that_ would be justice.

As the moments marched past and bystanders began to hesitantly emerge from the depths of the buildings lining the narrow street, as the wail of sirens drifted into the too-quiet residential neighborhood, I suddenly felt an inexplicable chill go down my spine.  Something was not right here.  The suspect wasn’t saying anything and in the three years, four months, and seventeen days I’d been an active Preventer agent in the field, I’d never encountered a bloodthirsty lunatic who’d been so subdued when apprehended.

He ought to be screaming about God’s will or wailing about the government’s crusade against him, but he said nothing.

The dread coiling in my gut uncurled and licked affectionately at my ribs.  The sirens were close now – perhaps two blocks away – but something told me that if I waited… if I waited…

Something was wrong.

Despite the fact that it would make my balance even more precarious, I reached down to yank off the head of the costume.  The motion brought me just close enough to hear two whispered words of warning: “Fuck you.”

The next utterance I heard came from myself as I swore in my native dialect.

And then the birdman’s head jerked once more – this time with single-minded purpose.  Like he was biting down on something.  A detonator, perhaps?

A residual instinct from my pilot training had me diving off the prone maniac and away from the backpack of bombs just as the street was lit by a small super nova.  The concussive force of the blast slammed me up against the side of a nearby delivery truck.  The last thing I remembered was trying to cover my head as the pavement rushed up toward me.

From the fact that I awoke sometime later in a hospital bed with an array of bandages engulfing my brow and a splitting headache, I surmised that I hadn’t quite managed it.

“Agent Chang.  Where do I start?”

I glared blearily up at Director Une, hating the fact that I was lying down and she was looming over me and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it that wouldn’t result in the loss of more of my pride.  I refused to pass out or vomit in her presence.  I also refused to let her berate me when I’d only done what had been necessary.

She began.  “... not on duty... call for back-up was not prompt enough... five civilians injured... property damage... and a dead suspect.”

Damned administrator.  Of course she could cast stones _now._   I bit back my furiously indignant rebuttal and focused on glaring up at the ceiling as if it could diffuse the pressure that was trying to stomp my skull apart from the inside out.

I ground my teeth together in frustration.  Despite my determination to ignore Director Une’s admonishment, the last part stuck in my mind like a splinter from a wooden chopping block.  Damn that self-righteous lunatic for dying on my watch.  I wouldn’t be able to beat the fear of the ancestors into him after all.

In a controlled tone, I answered the director’s methodically delivered speech with, “I did the best I could.” 

Director Une countered bluntly, “Your _best_ wasn’t good enough.  We’re a peace-keeping organization, Agent Chang.  Not a bunch of comic book action heroes.”

I didn’t justify that remark with a response.

“I can’t even blame your poor performance on Yukitani’s most recent replacement this time.”

The mention of my long-time partner brought me to yet another deficiency of the universe: my latest partner.  I suppose Lucrezia Noin was an able agent.  Possibly.  But I could afford to be generous now that she was on maternity leave and out from underfoot.  I briefly envisioned how things might have gone if she’d been walking down that street with me earlier and I ground my molars together so hard they actually creaked in my jaw.  She would have insisted on negotiating.  On empathizing with that lunatic.  On listening to his demands.

Damned woman.  It was fortunate that she’d decided to “experience the joys of motherhood.”  Otherwise, I’d likely be experiencing the joys of giving Agent Noin a much-needed reminder of the fact that she was an agent of the peace and charged with the wellbeing of thousands of local civilians.

“I’ll expect you in my office on Monday morning,” Une continued.  “We’ll discuss your report and the deficiencies of your methods then.”

 _My_ deficiencies?  I drew a breath, felt a fiery protest churn in my gut—!

And bit back the words at the last possible moment.  I _would_ maintain my control.  After all these years, it was my only companion.  I would not surrender it willingly.

She didn’t wish me a pleasant convalescence and I didn’t wish her a good evening.  I ignored her as she clicked away in her shiny, leather heels.

I fumed, despising the fact that I was already going over the entire incident in my head, looking for faults in my own actions.  Damn Yuy for resigning.  And damn this head injury which made it impossible for me to hold onto my rage.  My strength gave out in a shamefully short amount of time and I slumped back against the stiff hospital pillow in ill-tempered defeat.

A sigh rushed past my grimacing lips; it was going to be a long and un-restful recovery.  Just as soon as I could get out of here and back to my apartment, that is.  Scowling, I reached for the call button in order to set that plan in motion.

I checked myself out of the hospital as soon as I managed to intimidate the doctor into signing off on my chart and was home before the news channels could come up with the required minimum amount of drivel to broadcast to the ignorant masses.  Having the director come down to the city hospital just to lecture me was bad enough.  I wanted to be on familiar and defensible territory before the networks managed to bribe one of the orderlies to repeat what he or she had supposedly overheard.

Despite having an unlisted number, I turned off the ringer on my phone and commenced with screening all incoming calls the instant I crossed the threshold.  If the director contacted me and ordered me to give a statement the following afternoon, I was not going to be able to hold onto my temper.  I was not in the most generous of moods to put it mildly.  Anyone who knew me at all would know better than to contact me now.

The incident inevitably made the evening news.

And the eleven o’ clock news.

And the intercolony news.  At which point, I turned off the TV for the remainder of the night and following morning.

I confined myself to the various comfortable surfaces in my apartment, but I didn’t rest.  Could not rest.  Resented the very fact that my body required it.

I was in the process of deciding between instant ramen and microwavable fried rice for lunch when the phone’s message service clicked on.  I paused in my perusal of the cupboard’s contents and then growled when I heard the voice of someone I knew wouldn’t give up until I’d bowed to the inevitable.

I glared at the videophone through the archway.  It was tempting to make him talk until he was cut off, but I knew he’d only continue calling back again and again and again repeating the same directive until I put us both out of his misery.  I marched over to the desk, turned on the viewer, and opened the connection with the punch of a button.

“Armstrong,” I greeted grudgingly.  “If you’re calling to cash-in on my newfound celebrity, I will not be pleased.”

On the screen, Trowa Barton gave me a very small smile.  “You, displeased.  Now that I’d have to see to believe” was his quiet but wry reply.

I grunted.  Ever since the man had gotten married, his sarcastic sense of humor had become a regular event.  I countered, “As you can _see,_ I am in one piece.”

He nodded.  “And, as Duo would say, grumpy as hell because the suspect died on you.”

My knee-jerk reflex was to remind Barton not to use his husband’s given name over an unsecured channel, but I knew he wasn’t sloppy.  The reprimand was redundant and unnecessary.  It was also something Yuy would have said and it was not my job to fill his shoes.  “There is that.”

“But with that concussion, I’m not sure you would have been able to do much to him if he had lived.”

“Have I never warned you about underestimating me?”

“You have.  Once or twice.”

“That you admit to recalling.”

Barton shrugged, admitting to the truth of that statement.  “Duo and I are going to be in the neighborhood this evening, so—”

“No, you won’t,” I refuted.  “Your vacation time started two days ago.  Aren’t you both in that shameful land of debauchery that Cross was nattering on about?”  Last I’d heard the Nile River had become an overpriced, overdeveloped resort-infested excuse for tourists to overindulge in imitation French cuisine and off-Broadway musicals.  “Are you planning to fire yourselves out of a Beam Cannon?”

A third voice, muffled by distance, interjected with annoying cheer, “Haven’t actually left yet, buddy!  We’re still packin’ our socks!”

I gave Barton a droll look, before requesting intervention with a single word.  “Socks?”

Maxwell barked out a laugh and suddenly there he was, draping himself over his spouse’s shoulders and grinning at me.  “Hell yeah, man,” he replied enthusiastically.  “Can’t have any awkward moments when we put our best foot forward, eh?”

I bit back a groan, thereby denying him the satisfaction of having pried such an undignified sound out of me.  “Your very sad and deficient excuse for humor is more painful than a concussion.”

Maxwell cackled and winked at me.  “You’d know, I guess.”

Barton grinned.  “Personally, I thought that was a good one.”

Maxwell ruffled his hair gleefully.  It didn’t matter how often I’d seen this sort of byplay over the years, I still expected Barton to take exception to Maxwell’s irreverent behavior.  Of course, he never did.

I harrumphed.  “That is why _you_ are married to him.”

“Point.”

Maxwell butted in again.  “So, are we bringing over goopy, day-glo orange Indian curry or deep fried chicken skin in a paper bucket?”

I think I may have turned a little green.

“Right.  Fresh salads it is then,” Maxwell concluded and then disappeared.  Perhaps because he’d spotted something shiny.

“You checked our schedule?” Barton asked, hauling the conversation out of the physics-defying realm of what I called the Maxwell Abyss and back onto its tracks.

I gave him a condescending look.  “Of course, I did.  Which is how I know that you’ve long since missed your flight.”

“Rescheduled,” he amended.  “After we saw the news report.”

I calculated precisely when and where they likely would have encountered it.  “As you were waiting to board the plane?”

“Where else?” Barton replied mildly.  “What kind of dressing do you want on your non-goopy and chicken-skin-free salad?”

I sighed.  “I should have known you’d be this determined to disrupt my convalescence.”

“Yes, you should have.”

Maxwell reappeared, waggling his brows obscenely.  “Well if you didn’t get yourself injured every other week...”

It irritated me that he was right.  Ever since Yuy had left the Preventers to be Winner’s chief of staff, I’d seen far too much of the local emergency room and Po’s domain at headquarters.

I objected on principle: “Giving hyperbole a try, are we, Cross?”

“No more than you, Chang.”

“Well, that’s comforting.  For a moment, I thought I was talking to Winner and his evil twin in disguise.”

For some reason, Maxwell found that highly amusing.

Barton retorted with a smirk, “Get your eyes checked.”

“After you,” I growled.  “As you can _see,_ I’m fine.”

“Despite your best efforts to the contrary,” Barton argued.

“Despite _your_ best efforts to force me to wash my hands of the both of you!”

“So you can wallow in guilt,” Maxwell deduced, a smirk curling the edges of his mouth.

“Is that what I’m doing?” I doubted.  “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“Naw, I don’t think so, buddy,” Maxwell mused.  When I opened my mouth to argue, he held up a finger in warning.  “One more protest and we’ll come bearing the latest B-action movies.”

I loathed action movies.  “And if that isn’t enough to convince me to cease and desist?”

Maxwell chuckled darkly.  “I’ll leave that to your formidable psychic talents, Madame Swami.”

I ignored the jibe aimed at my bandage turban.  “Would you like to know your future, Cross?  I can see an irritated Chinese man punching you in the nose when you show up on his doorstep.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Hell, _I_ could have guessed that.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?  I’m hanging up.  You’re cutting into Winner’s pound of flesh.”  By my estimate, he would be calling in precisely ten minutes, no doubt to pick up where Barton and Maxwell were about to leave off.

Barton raised an eyebrow.  “In that case—”

The last glimpse I had of them both was of Maxwell’s toothy grin and Barton’s hand as he reached for the disconnect button.

I smirked back at the blank video screen.  For a moment, the peace and quiet seemed especially peaceful and quiet.  I would never admit it in the presence of witnesses, but their call had served a purpose.  I leaned back in my chair, gingerly angling my chin up until I was trading stares with the ceiling, and let out a deep breath.  Maxwell has always had an exceptional talent for assisting me with the letting off of no small amount of steam.  I wondered when exactly he’d recruited Barton to help him with that.

They were both good friends in spite of the fact that I was not a particularly demonstrative with my appreciation.  I was well-aware that I seemed ungrateful, but I was far from it.  I was, perhaps, a bit bitter: to say that Barton and Maxwell had a partnership that was enviable was a gross understatement.  Once, I’d thought that perhaps I might have earned an unbreakable variety of trust and loyalty from someone.  But no.  Clearly I hadn’t.  After all, I was currently _without_ a partner.

I closed my eyes and sighed.  I was doomed to repeat the same disappointments in my life, over and over again.  Long ago, I’d had the chance at that kind of deep and meaningful companionship, but I’d been too young to appreciate how a partnership of that sort might develop in the future.  We’d both been too young, too stubborn, too weak to bend and too self-centered to compromise.  If I regretted anything, it was the loss of her life.  She hadn’t _had_ to die.  Things might have been different if I’d stood beside her despite disagreeing with her decision to fight, to go to war, to try and be something she wasn’t.

Meiran hadn’t been a soldier any more than I had been and it made no sense at all that I’d survived the war while she had been sacrificed to it.  Khushrenada should have killed me in the final battle.  No – he should have killed me after our first duel.  I’d lost and he’d let me live with the shame.  Perhaps he’d known how badly it would break me.  A more devious foe, I’d yet to encounter.  Sometimes it felt like I was continually fighting, like I’d never stopped, like I was never going to be able to put down the sword because to do so would mean accepting a right to life that I hadn’t earned.

I wondered if Maxwell could sense that somehow.  Perhaps that was why he was determined to induce an aneurysm for the sake of distracting me.  On the Maxwell scale of diversions, he’d no doubt consider it sufficient to the task.

I took a second deep breath and kept my eyes closed.  As I sat there with my hands on the armrests, I contemplated as little as possible.  Perhaps one minute later, just as I’d decided that, should Barton and Maxwell get lost – or rather, _distracted by each other_ – on their way here, I was definitely having fried rice for dinner, the voice mail started up again.  This time, it was Winner.

With a smirk, I returned my attention to the video phone, feeling far more smug than a concussion warranted.  It was both an annoyance and a comfort to have such predictable friends.

“Wufei!” Winner exclaimed the instant the call connected.  “What happened?”

I appreciated that he didn’t ask after my condition.  It gave me something to growl about.  “Why, yes, I am fine.  Thank you for inquiring.”

The interesting thing about Winner was that it didn’t matter if he was in the same room or halfway to Mars, his reaction to my snide comment was the same.  He crossed his arms over his chest and gave me a laser-blue stare.  “Thank you for anticipating my next question.  Now, _what happened?”_

If it hadn’t started throbbing sometime after Maxwell had threatened me with B-action movies, I would have shaken my head ruefully.  Instead, I expressed my irritation by tapping my fingers against the desktop as I obligingly began the tale.  It started out as a mundane story of a certain Preventer agent making his way home after work.  He’d passed by the east-side park on foot—

“That’s not on your way home,” Winner pointed out astutely.

I briefly considered telling him that I’d moved, but falsehoods required too much energy to maintain for however many years he’d remember this conversation, so I amended the tale to incorporate the intention of the aforementioned Preventer agent to confirm that the neighborhood’s motorcycle gang wasn’t harassing the park-goers—

“That’s not your job,” he interrupted.  “Were you in uniform?  Where was your partner?”

I sighed.  At the rate we were going, I’d perish of starvation before I actually told the part which explained my current headwear.  “It _is_ my job,” I retorted.  “I’m _still_ an agent of the peace.”

“And?” Winner prompted like a pale terrier with a dirty sock.

I disliked the fact that my subtle rebuke hadn’t landed the anticipated hit; Winner should have winced.  He should have offered a token apology for accepting a damned political career in space and taking my partner of nearly three years with him.

“You were in uniform, weren’t you?” he persisted.  The man was relentless.

“I was wearing the Preventers windbreaker,” I admitted through my teeth.  “And, before you ask, my _partner—”_   If you could call her that.  “—began maternity leave on Monday.”

“Ah,” Winner replied in an enlightened tone that I did not care for.  “So, you weren’t supposed to be in the field.  No wonder the director is furious with you.”

“What makes you think she didn’t congratulate me?” I retorted crossly.

Winner gave me a sympathetic smile that made my fingers curl into fists.  “You wouldn’t be screening your calls otherwise.”

I glared.

“Just let it go, Wufei,” he counseled softly.  “What can I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Perhaps Gerald—”

“No!”  I leaned forward menacingly.  “Yukitani does not need to know any of this.”  The last thing I wanted was for Yuy to start second-guessing his change of career.  I had no intention of verbalizing it, but he and Winner could do a lot of good for the colonies, representing their interests full-time such as they were, and it was a worthy path to walk.  Learning that I’d been injured yet again and left partner-less was not going to benefit anyone.

 Winner nodded.  “Understood.”  And then he just studied me.

I took a deep breath and counted to five before I let it out.

“Are you still meditating every day?” he asked delicately.

I was, but it hardly made any appreciable difference.  I spent most of the time working through my fury at having to clean up all the little messes my non-Yuy partner _du jour_ had left in his or her wake.  They were – each and every one of them – walking cyclones.  I no longer left the temple feeling refreshed and centered.  There wasn’t enough time in the world for such an achievement.

“Well, I’d tell you to take a vacation and come and visit space,” Winner continued, “but, as it turns out, we’ll be in town soon.”

“The summit?” I deduced, relieved that I had an opening to a new topic of conversation.

“Yes.  Let’s all have dinner.”

My eyes narrowed.  “You know that Cross and Armstrong postponed their trip.”  It wasn’t a question.

“Er, yes.  It was JC who called to say which hospital you’d been admitted to.”

I sighed _again._

“Wufei, you need someone to watch your back,” Winner informed me with irritating sincerity.

It was more complicated than that, which he was well aware.  I needed someone competent who understood the psychology of a former Gundam pilot.  I needed someone I could trust.  I didn’t argue any of those points.  I said, “Which I’m sure the director will discuss it with me on Monday morning.”

It was either that or a demotion.  I doubted she’d ask for my resignation.  I didn’t care to contemplate the turn my life would inevitably take if she did.

Winner capitulated, “You’re right.  I’m sorry.  It’s not my job to point out the obvious when it comes to your work.”

He didn’t sound very contrite, but hearing the words spoken with confidence actually soothed my ragged nerves more than a genuine apology would have.

“When is your flight getting in?” I asked, accepting the peace offering and leaving the topic behind.

“Monday.  1410 hours.  We have something scheduled for that evening, but we’ll be available for a very late dinner.”

“Fine,” I agreed.  I opened my mouth to say something else – a message for him to pass on to Yuy – but nothing came out.

It was at that precise moment that someone knocked softly on my front door.

Winner smiled.  “Tell JC and Tristan I said hello.  And take care of yourself, Wufei.”

He disconnected the call without the fanfare of a farewell and that small thing cheered me.  Goodbyes were unnecessary in the case of open dialog between friends and, by not wishing me a goodnight, Winner was telling me that the window was open as always.  Should I experience the inclination to continue our discussion, all I had to do was call.  I undoubtedly would later, after I’d ejected Maxwell and Barton from the premises with orders never to return.

I levered myself out of my chair and answered the summons before Maxwell could hotwire my security system and force his way in.

Although I braced myself for a blast of Maxwell enthusiasm, he was surprisingly serene, breezing his way across the threshold.

“Hey, man.  We brought paper plates and sporks,” he informed me, indicating the supermarket bag in his grasp.  “Only the best for such a memorable occasion!”

“Memorable?”

“Tro’s gonna cook for us.”

_Oh dear ancestors, save me._

“Relax, Wu.  You’ll live.  Scout’s honor.”

And then Barton appeared in the hall with a second, larger bag and I resigned myself to some sort of mercenary mash or other.  To my surprise, Barton made fried rice that was so palatable it called for a second serving.

“When,” I interrogated, “did _this_ happen?”  I lifted a plastic sporkful and speared my self-invited guests with a meaningful look.

Maxwell chuckled and proceeded to rub my face in my own disbelief.  “Told ya.”

Barton replied, “A few years ago.  I took a few cooking lessons from a master.”

“I… beg your pardon?”

Maxwell smirked.  “Do you _really_ wanna know?  It’s, like, the sappiest thing ever.”

“On second thought, you are right,” I agreed, thankful that he’d warned me off the topic.  “I don’t want to know.”  But due to Maxwell’s well-known enthusiasm for home cooking, I could imagine.  Despite the hazy picture I conjured, I was still startled; I never would have predicted that Barton would learn how to cook just for Maxwell’s benefit.  That spoke of something highly personal.  Given the man’s clear devotion to his spouse, it shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did.  An odd warmth exploded deep in my chest.  I would be forever grateful that Barton’s patience was endless and that Maxwell could always be trusted to see reason... eventually.  Without either of those traits, they might never have become the formidable pair that they were.  It was doubly rewarding to know that I’d played a role (albeit a small one) in that.  I suppose this little visit was their way of repaying the favor.

Returning my attention to the serving on my plate and the takeout salad Maxwell had come bearing, I acknowledged as much: “It is excellent.”

“In that case, I’ll leave the rest with you,” Barton announced, standing.

I watched as he began measuring portions out of the wok he’d unearthed beneath the counter, sealing each in one mismatched bowl after another.  There were five in all.  Apparently, I was destined to eat a considerable amount of fried rice this weekend.

“When is your flight?” I asked.

“Tuesday evening,” Maxwell answered and I winced.

“Thank you both,” I volunteered.  “You did not have to sacrifice so much of your vacation for my sake.”

Maxwell huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes.  “Oh, sure we did, because like the Sun, the Moon, the colonies, and all the stars in the freakin’ universe revolve around you.”

“Duo,” Barton admonished him.

“What?” he retorted feistily.

Barton glanced over his shoulder at him in silence.

Maxwell had the grace to sit back in his chair and look vaguely apologetic.  “OK, yeah, maybe that came out wrong.  What I mean is…  Aw, hell.  You’re our friend, Wufei, and we did this as much for our own peace of mind as anything else.”

I felt my mouth twitch with a smile.  “And having to come back for a funeral would have killed the mood?”

Maxwell let out a bark of laughter.  Barton was stubbornly silent.  “But seriously,” Maxwell replied, affecting a somber and stern expression, “don’t kid about shit like that or I’ll kick your ass.”

“Cross, the only way you could possibly kick my ass is over my dead body.”

“Thank you for making my point, Wu-bear.”

I growled.

“You have no excuse for dying on us now,” Barton contributed, pointedly lifting the sealed containers before placing them in the refrigerator.

“Yeah, so suck it up, pal-y.”

I sighed.

“They give you stitches or butterfly clamps?” Maxwell asked after a moment, gesturing to his own head as he eyed my wrappings.

“It is merely an abrasion,” I replied.  If it hadn’t been so close to my hairline, I might have been able to manage keeping it covered with a sizable adhesive bandage.

“Huh.  Well, there’s always next time,” he continued.

“Next time?”

“Yeah.  For the Awesome Scar.  Capital A, capital S.”  He winked.  “As if any other souvenir from an encounter with a blue bird bomber would be as cool.”

“What?”

Returning to the table, Barton supplied, “He has a thing for capital letters and primary colors.”

Like most other children his age.

“Ignore him,” Barton concluded.

Maxwell took exception on cue.  “Hey!”

“Yes?” Barton replied.

Maxwell smirked.  “I thought you were ignoring me.”

“I’ve instructed Wufei to do as I say, not as I do.”

“Hah.  Tryin’ to keep me all to yourself, eh?”  Maxwell grinned with a sickening amount of delight and Barton’s mouth curved into a small, secretive smile.  Now this was a detail I genuinely did not want to know.

I followed Barton’s advice and disregarded Maxwell as he collected our paper and plastic dinnerware for disposal.  “I’ve got these, babe.  You do the surprise thing.”

“Roger that.”

“Surprise?” I scoffed.  “If either of you has smuggled action films into _my_ home—!”

“Relax,” Barton interjected, reaching into one of the paper bags as Maxwell filled up the kitchen sink with a completely unnecessary amount of soap bubbles.

Despite the edict, I did _not_ relax.  I braced myself for “Man versus Martians” or something equally insipid.  With a smirk, Barton lifted a novel from the bag and placed it in front of me on the table.  “The newest Boyd mystery.  Make it last the weekend.”

I smirked back.  “With pleasure.”

As Maxwell washed up the pan and cooking utensils and Barton dried, I opened the cover of the novel and began to read.  I grunted absently when, approximately ten pages later, I heard Maxwell announce their imminent departure.  They locked up behind themselves.

I listened to the sound of the door closing and paused before turning the page.  Glancing up from my book, I considered first the food in the refrigerator and then the peace and quiet surrounding me.

Yes, Barton and Maxwell were true friends.

I considered my unfinished conversation with Winner.  He was a good friend as well.

I turned back to my novel before I could think of Yuy and start wondering who his next replacement was likely to be.  It wasn’t a topic that required my attention until Monday morning and, as I had the option of putting it out of my mind for two extraordinarily restful days, I endeavored to do precisely that.


	2. Partners and Politics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For ALT. Hoping this is cheers for your feels, dear. (^_^)

The ancestors were determined to punish me.  There could be no other explanation.  Unless Barton had put something hallucinogenic in that fried rice after all.

“Agent Chang?  Did you hear me?”  Director Une gave me a condescending look.

“That depends,” I heard myself retort, “on whether you meant to inform me that Agent Schbeiker is my new partner.”

“She is.”

I stared at her, willing her to pull a Maxwell and laugh at her own joke before admitting to orchestrating such a tasteless prank.

She stared back.

“Agent Schbeiker,” I replied slowly, setting aside my personal feelings and searching for a logical rebuttal, “is no longer a field agent.”

“Actually, she is.  Agent Schbeiker has decided that Operations Management does not suit her.  She has requested to return to a field position and I’m giving her the one field position that is available.”

I ignored the implication that I was truly that difficult to work with.  I simply had very high standards.  My arrest record was a force to be reckoned with.  My personnel file was spotless.  I had done nothing which warranted condemning me to a partnership with a woman who was, in essence, a female version of Duo Maxwell himself.

Surely, I had other options.

“Starting today,” the director ordered, turning back to the files on her desk.  She selected one seemingly at random (and perhaps it was) and passed it to me.  “Agent Schbeiker will be contacting you shortly regarding the preparations for your first joint assignment.”

“Delightful,” I muttered, standing.

“Agent Chang!”

I paused.  The director didn’t often use that tone and I knew it well enough to beware of what was about to follow.

“If you cannot make this partnership work, I will have no choice but to pull you from the field.”

“On what grounds?” I demanded with a justifiable amount of indignation.

“Four partners in as many months,” she retorted, “is more than sufficient grounds.”

“You cannot hold me accountable for Agent Nichol’s obstinacy.”  The man had refused to listen to reason with regards to _anything_ unless I’d prefaced it with the phrase “The director has ordered us to…”  If I’d thought of it all on my own, then it had to be wrong.  No exceptions. 

“And Agent Carlson…”  I trailed off.  Perhaps the altercation with Carlson _was_ partially my fault.  Still, if the man hadn’t been such a lazy moron—

“But surely, I am not responsible for Agent Noin’s decision to start _breeding!”_   And with Merquise of all people.  The thought of that man’s moronic approach to fighting being instilled in a new generation made me think we’d already lost the battle for the fate of humanity.

The director snorted inelegantly.  “Responsible or not, Agent Chang, the facts are open to interpretation.”

She was threatening me.  Like a playground monitor warning the children to get along lest she inform their parents of their poor behavior.  Disgusting.

“That is all.”  It was a clear dismissal and I went because if I stayed there any longer, I was inevitably going to say something that would make its way into my permanent file.

I stormed down the hall and into my office, slamming the door shut behind me.  Only then, as I took comfort in the privacy guaranteed by the four walls around me, did I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and attempt to push out as many frustrations as I could.  Giving each individual field agent of the Preventers their own office wasn’t just an intelligent precaution against leaks in confidentiality; it was a matter of sanity.

I moved toward my desk and sat down, placing the file upon the desktop gingerly, as if it was a homemade explosive, unstable and prone to detonation at the slightest disturbance.  I did not want to believe that this was my last chance.  Surely, the director was merely attempting to motivate me into being more cooperative. 

Still, it didn’t follow that I ought to ignore the spirit of the law and cling religiously to the letter of it – like Nichol – nor rampage through an investigation cutting as many corners as possible – like Carlson, whom I had immediately reported to the ethics committee rather than attempt to teach the idiot how to do his job – _nor_ give suspects coffee breaks in the middle of their interrogation – like Noin! 

There was nothing wrong with my methods.  All of my cases had been handled perfectly, intelligently, and none of the prosecutors on our staff had ever had a conviction overturned because of an error that I had made.  I was a good agent.  One of the best.  The director would not remove me from the field.  She would not fire me.

Reassured and vindicated, I opened the file and swore at length and with as many adjectives as I could manage in one breath.  This assignment was a joke, and a very bad one at that.

Just then, my phone buzzed.  I glared at it.  This was yet another concession to maintaining the confidentiality of our cases which I appreciated for personal reasons: there was no video screen attached to the appliance.  Therefore, I could glare all I liked.

Picking up the line, I growled into the receiver, “Chang.”

“Prove it.”

I closed my eyes.  _Ancestors, hear my plea and lend me a portion of your blessed strength._   She really was _exactly_ like Maxwell but, being female, she came with additional and disturbingly unpredictable hormones.

Rather than dignify her challenge with a retort, I hung up.  I was _not_ going to be dragged into a contest of wills in which the burden of proving my own identity (of all things) fell at my feet.

I turned back to the file and began scanning the objectives that had been laid out.

The phone rang again.

Again, I picked it up.  “Chang.”

“Having a bad day, are we?”

It was no concern of hers whether I was or not.  I hung up the phone.

I’d advanced as far as the second page of the file’s contents before the phone rang for a third time.

“Chang,” I said.

“Yes, I think we’ve established that,” Schbeiker retorted drolly.  “My office.  Ten hundred hours.  Bring the file pertaining to our assignment.”

She disconnected the call first.  I replaced the receiver and got back to work.

It was currently half past nine which meant I only had thirty minutes to resign myself to the glorified babysitting duty we’d been assigned.  Sighing out a frustrated growl, I went through the documents in the file, committing the three-day schedule of the After Colony 203 Earth Sphere United Nation (ESUN) Resource Cooperation Summit to memory:

Day 1 – opening remarks and an evening press conference

Day 2 – pointless oration, PR nonsense, lunch, more pontification, dinner, and a frivolous reception

Day 3 – an official congress session followed by a late morning press conference

It wasn’t even a full seventy-two hours, but I was certain I would feel every single, solitary minute of it in excruciating detail.  It was, in fact, the very same summit that Winner would be attending as a delegate for the colonies, and I had no doubt Yuy would be there, lurking in in his employer’s shadow, gaze endlessly sweeping the assembly for threats.

If not for the fact that my attention was restricted to the Foreign Minister’s wellbeing, I could almost convince myself that this would be a normal – if utterly mundane – assignment.  But facts were facts and it was clear that Yuy and I would not be sharing the same objectives in this instance.  Sooner or later, I was going to have to become accustomed to that.

Scowling at the sour taste generated by the thought, I gathered the file and left for Schbeiker’s office.

I arrived three minutes early.  I knocked twice and opened the door upon receiving approval.  I had little success subduing the urge to sneer at the disaster area that was her domain.  If this was how she worked cases, then I had serious doubts regarding her ability to manage an actual salvage yard, as rumor suggested she’d done just after the end of the war.  It was obvious why the enterprise had been so brief.

“Agent Chang,” she observed without looking up from her computer screen.

“Agent Schbeiker,” I returned.

“Have a seat.”

_Where?_ I didn’t ask.  I said, “I’ll stand.”

She finally glanced up and her gaze zoomed directly to my temple where I’d finally managed to dispose of my conspicuous adhesive bandage that morning.  “Uh huh.  If your concussion tries to convince you otherwise, there’s a chair on your two o’clock.”

I looked in the indicated direction.  “Really?”

Her lips twitched into a wry smile.  “Oh ye of little faith.”

“Faith is not a requirement of our assignment,” I retorted.  “Preparation is.”

She leaned back in her seat, scanning my expression shrewdly.  “And just how prepared are you, Agent Chang?”

I stiffened at her tone.  She rose from her chair and deftly picked her way through the stacks of folders and photocopies and forms, moving as if they weren’t even present, and advanced until she was standing opposite me.  I did not know what her game was, but I refused to be toyed with.

“I asked you a question, agent.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Oh, good.  You were paying attention.”  She smiled.  And then, in a blur of motion, her hand shot out toward my throat.

My reaction was purely reflexive.  I shifted aside, stepped behind her foot, grasped her wrist and, in the next instant, she was lying on her back on her disaster zone of a desk, papers shifting and fluttering over the edge.

I glared down at her.  “Satisfied?”

She grinned up at me.  And then I felt the toe of her loafer hook behind my supporting knee and tug.  My foot slid on the cover of a dropped folder and I tumbled backwards, startled when the tower of files I slammed into didn’t fold like a house of cards under me.

“I told you there was a chair there,” she said, sitting up and leaning against the edge of her desk as if it was of no matter to her that she’d been laid out upon it not two seconds previously.  “You should trust me,” she said lightly.  “If for no other reason than having a junior agent look like an incompetent oaf on my watch means I’ll have more paperwork to fill out.”

I gritted my teeth and stood.  “I would hate to make your work more tedious.”

“Then we understand each other,” she summarized, standing up straight and holding out her hand.  “Here’s to a solid partnership.”

I accepted her clasp even as a snarl struggled to climb up my throat.

“Now, we need to inspect the premises at the ESUN headquarters before the delegates arrive this evening.  We’ll also have to speak to the members of staff and confirm their duties and schedules.  I’ve arranged for everyone to be available from 1500 hours.”

“And the press?” I inquired.

“They’ll be arriving at the estate at 1300 hours to set up for the first round of interviews and discussion.  Meet me in the parking garage by the elevator at 1220.  We’ll take my car and vet them ourselves before they start whining about deadlines and lighting issues.”

I nodded.  When I turned to go, I realized that I’d dropped my file in the brief struggle.  I felt my expression pinch with irritation as I realized that there was a windfall of identical folders scattered over every inch of the floor.  I was certain I’d have to paw through a good portion of them to find the one I’d walked in here with.

Schbeiker bent and plucked one off of the floor and offered it to me with a knowing grin.

Brows arched with disbelief, I accepted it, flipped the cover open, and ascertained that it was, indeed, my copy.  The sparse notations I’d made in the margins earlier confirmed it.

She didn’t say anything.  I didn’t thank her; she was to blame for my having misplaced it in the first place.

“Your office is in shameful condition,” I growled, heading for the exit.

“In the eye of the beholder,” she sing-songed cheerfully.

I closed the door behind me without glancing back.

So, that was Agent Hilde Schbeiker.  She and I had never worked together in the past.  Our cases had rarely brought us into the same room, in fact.  The last time I could recall speaking to her was nearly a year ago when Yuy and I had warned her and Noin not to open an official investigation into their own miraculous escape from certain death.  Surprisingly, they had let well enough alone.

Now, the real question was whether I could trust what I’d seen to be the woman herself.  Perhaps, like Maxwell, she was adept at wearing masks.  I was relatively certain that the impression I’d gotten of her was not the complete picture.  I was neither reassured nor comforted by that revelation.

I returned to my office and, closing the door, took a moment to remind myself that she had single-handedly organized and implemented the Preventers’ side of the operation against Dekim Barton three and a half years earlier.  Given the state of her office, it was easy to discount that as mere speculation.  But now that she was both my partner _and_ the senior field agent, I could not afford to rely on rumors and assumptions.

It was, generally, a good philosophy to implement, especially considering the sheer number of people I would be interrogating today.  With that in mind, I returned to my desk and opened the file once again to take a closer look at the staff, press, and delegates’ background checks. 

As expected, there were glaring holes in nearly all of them.  A glance at the clock confirmed it: I could only do so much in the time allotted.  With a growl, I got to work.

“Just out of curiosity,” Schbeiker said as she pulled out of the HQ garage at precisely 1220, “do you scowl like that even when you’re having a _good_ day?”

Ignoring both her and the assortment of newspapers, the umbrella, pink plastic poncho, windshield scraper, and myriad of other junk items littering the back seat, I pulled my laptop out of my satchel and continued with my task of supplementing the background checks with actual data.  Whoever had been assigned to prepare these ought to be shot.  Repeatedly.  In the bullocks.  With synthetic bullets.

A twinge of dread made my fingers pause on the keyboard.  “Is Agent Carlson involved in this assignment in any way?” I checked.

Grinning, Schbeiker reached down and pulled a folder out of the door’s side pocket.  Shoving it beneath my nose like a 5-year-old showing off a colorful scribble, she said, “Pretty obvious, isn’t it?  I started from the bottom of the pile and worked my way up since I figured you’re a top-down kind of guy.”

The folder fell open across the laptop keyboard and I scanned the notations she’d made on the second half of the background checks.  The level of detail rivaled my own and her penmanship was tolerably legible.  Well, maybe working with her wasn’t going to be an exercise in self-restraint after all.

But, then again, maybe it was.

“Oh, my goodness!  You’re Manning Wilhelm, aren’t you?” she gushed about thirty minutes later, shaking the hand of the second member of the press to be escorted into the spare office we’d appropriated for the required interviews.  “I’m a _huge_ fan.”

I snorted derisively.

Manning Wilhelm, on the other hand, gave her a winning smile.  Sunlight gleamed off of his gelled, blonde hair.  The man was as plastic and unoriginal as an overpriced action figure.

“I would say you’d have to be a great deal taller and wider to be a _huge_ fan, Agent…?”

“Schbeiker.  Hilde Schbeiker,” she readily supplied, and then destroyed any possible budding respect from me by insisting, “Call me Hilde.”

“Hilde!  A name as lovely as the lady herself.”

She giggled.

I felt nauseous.  “Agent Wufei Chang,” I interjected tightly.  “Sit down.”

Wilhelm blinked at me, perhaps a little disappointed that I wasn’t a member of his fan club.  If news anchors could have fan clubs.  The very idea was repugnant.

“It’s such an honor to meet you,” Schbeiker enthused with the same endless enthusiasm of which Maxwell was irritatingly capable.

“Thank you, Hilde.”  At long last, Wilhelm managed to follow basic instructions: he sat.

Schbeiker perched herself on the edge of her chair like a poodle awaiting a promised treat.  “Wow.  You know, it’s really too bad our first meeting was for work, but – to be honest – if we’d bumped into each other on the street, I probably would have embarrassed both of us!”

I glared at her.  “Are you going to ask for his autograph next or shall we get started?”

She had the nerve to startle as if she’d forgotten I was in the room.  “Oh, um, yes.  Let’s get started.”  She then gave Wilhelm a bashful look through her lashes.  “Although, about that autograph…?”

He leaned forward and grinned, showing off his perfectly pearly-white teeth.  “I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other as the summit goes on, won’t we?”  What was the point of speaking in a confidential tone?  It was unavoidable that I’d hear every word the moron said.

Schbeiker twittered in reply, “That’s the plan!”

I slapped a file down on the table between them, breaking up their chummy little exchange.  “Are you or are you not exclusively employed by the media subsidiary known as NES – Network of the Earth Sphere?” I began.

I kept the questions coming as I ticked my way down the standard format for conducting background checks and interviews.  Schbeiker sat there and gazed at him dreamily while she doodled blindly on her copy.

“You’ve often conducted interviews with Foreign Minister Relena Darlian in the past.  Is that correct?” I grated out.

“Yes,” Wilhelm responded, winking at Schbeiker.  “The foreign minister has been a guest of NES a number of times over the years.”

“How many?”

“Excuse me?”

“How many times has she been a guest of NES?”

“Oh, six or seven.  I’d have to check.”

“And how often have you been invited to the ESUN headquarters to conduct interviews?”

“Twice.”

As it was a smaller number, it was easy to see how he could remember it more precisely.  “Have you visited the ESUN headquarters for any other reason?”

“I attended a gala here on the first anniversary of the end of the war.”  He looked at me and smirked.  “The champagne was excellent.”

I smirked back, refusing to let the idiot think that he’d landed an actual blow in reminding me of the fact that I hadn’t been invited to those trite festivities.  As if I would have cared.  How laughable.  “Yes, you looked very pleased with it.”

He frowned at me.

Clearly, he was too slow to pick up on the inference.  I explained, “Security footage.  So much more entertaining than films.”

Before he could do more than shift his gaze to the side, a clear sign that he was uncomfortable in response to something I’d implied, I pounced with an inquiry most people would lie about if given the chance, “Are you involved with anyone working on these premises?”

“Involved with…?  Not at the present time, no,” he responded.  Then he turned his attention back to Schbeiker and added with a smarmy grin, “But, with luck, that will change.”

Not until this assignment was over, it wouldn’t.

“Thank you for your time.”  I got up to escort him out.  With an IQ as miniscule as his, he’d likely already forgotten where the exit was located.  I then checked to ensure that the next member of the press was ready for her interview.

The process of vetting the media employees required the entire two hours we had reserved for it.  The staff members were next.  Despite many of them being as handsome as Manning Wilhelm, Schbeiker did not drop her brain on the floor and step on it a second time.

Thank the ancestors.

“Whew!” she remarked as the door closed behind the last of the foreign minister’s minions.  “We have just enough time to grab a bite to eat before the security meeting.  And then on to the press conference with the other delegates.”

“Yes,” I intoned drolly.  “You simply must be there.  _Huge_ fan.”

She smirked at me.  “Jealous?”

I slid my laptop back into my satchel and assured her, “Of course not.  I have my own fans to concern myself with.”

She snorted.  “And who might they be?  Dyed-in-the-wool masochists?”

“How appropriate that you would liken fans in general to herd animals.”

Schbeiker blinked at me and slowly shook her head in amazement.  “You are one hateful jerk, Chang.”

“I don’t waste time or energy with hatred.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Not without a sparkling white smile.”

She pursed her lips together as if she were trying not to grin.  “Yup, you are definitely jealous.”

I headed for the door, readying my parting shot as I moved.  “I’d suggest that you work on improving your observational skills, but I don’t especially wish to be disappointed yet _again,_ Agent Schbeiker.”

I closed the door loud enough to cut off her retort.  If I wanted to get something to eat before we had our scheduled conference with the delegates’ security staff, then I didn’t have time to waste on witty banter.

Five minutes later, I was digesting a vitamin-fortified energy bar and ignoring my steaming cup of black coffee as I took a seat beside Schbeiker, directly across from Heero Yuy.

“Yukitani,” I greeted, using the name he’d elected to adopt as his own ever since we’d defeated Dekim Barton’s forces.  As this was not a social visit and as the table was gradually being populated by one chief-of-staff after another, I did not ask him how his flight had been.

He nodded neutrally.  “Agent Chang.”

His gaze snagged on the abrasion at my temple, but he didn’t ask nor did he look surprised.  I briefly entertained the thought of accusing Winner of informing Yuy of my recent injuries despite his agreement not to, but it was far more likely that Yuy had flagged my name in hospital admissions and hacked into Winner’s correspondence cache.

I sighed.

Other greetings were exchanged between acquaintances in the room.  These men and women were undoubtedly accustomed to this procedure and had crossed paths repeatedly over the years.  Two in particular even included Schbeiker in their acknowledgements.  Once everyone was seated and accessorized with the requisite spillable beverage that would wreak havoc on any and all paperwork it touched, the meeting began.

“Thank you for your prompt attendance, ladies and gentlemen,” Schbeiker began, somewhat ironically I thought.  We were already eight minutes behind schedule.  “If you will open your information packs, there are a few noteworthy points that Agent Chang and I would like to add for your reference.”

We went over the list of press and staff, highlighting details that were enlightening but hopefully unnecessary.  Each chief-of-staff then provided packets on their own employees.  There were no arguments, no grandstanding, no dramatic revelations of spies or saboteurs in our midst.  This was, after all, a mere formality.  All of these people had been vetted thoroughly before being offered positions of such a sensitive nature.  Still, I would be working late this evening to confirm that the data provided was truly accurate.

With so many experienced professionals lacking personal or political agendas participating, the meeting was the height of efficiency.  It concluded twenty-two minutes ahead of schedule, praises be.  Not that I was looking forward to trailing after the foreign minister for the next three hours but, as that was the assignment, I preferred to simply move on to the next objective.

“Ever been to one of these things before?” Schbeiker asked as we headed out and down the hall to the foreign minister’s private study.

“No.”  I fitted the earwick that the ESUN head of security had offered each of us into my left ear.

She chuckled, adjusting her own earwick.  “You’re in for a treat, then.”

Ah.  More irony.

With the foreign minister’s office just ahead, I braced myself for female hysterics or whatever females do when they’re running late and cannot locate their coordinating handbag or some such nonsense.  However, the foreign minister was refreshingly calm and collected.  She appeared to have the situation well in hand by not bothering with such trivialities as hand-held accessories, coordinating or otherwise.

“Agent Chang,” she greeted me, holding out a hand.  “Thank you for your attention to detail.”

I raised a brow in inquiry and she gestured to a thick stack of personnel files on her desk, each of which contained copies of the background checks Schbeiker and I had gone over with a fine-tooth comb.  Her personal assistant had evidently been adequately efficient in preparing the copies we’d requested.  There had certainly been time during the interviews with the press for the task to be completed.  In this, it seemed, my expectations had been met, but I had not expected the foreign minister to actually look through them much less examine each and every one.

“We are a little early,” she continued, speaking to Schbeiker, “but I’d like to continue on to the reception room and have a few words with some of the delegates before the opening address and press conference begins.”

As Schbeiker turned away to confirm via earwick that the room was ready and the ESUN security personnel were stationed at their respective posts, the foreign minister offered me a smile.  She glanced at the scrape along my hairline and I tensed in anticipation of the first crass and overly personal inquiry or observation.  I’d known it would only be a matter of time.

She said, “I don’t expect the press conference to last more than an hour and then we’ll have a brief reception.  I’d like to finish the evening on schedule.  I’m sure you have other work to attend to, just as I do.”

I nodded, appreciating the consideration, but it was unnecessary.  “We must all attend to our duties, Foreign Minister,” I answered, letting her know I was aware that the evening might run late despite her intentions otherwise.

“Yes.  You are correct, Agent Chang.”

“OK,” Schbeiker said, rejoining the discussion.  “They’re ready for us.  If you’ll follow me, Foreign Minister Darlian?”

I took up the rear and turned up the volume on my own earwick.  I did not expect any difficulties, but that was usually when they occurred in abundance.

The press lobby was fully occupied.  Cameramen were performing sound checks and reporters were checking their teeth for bits of unseemly dinner leftovers.

“Quatre!” Relena exclaimed softly in welcome as she spotted him across the room.

His head was bent toward Yuy’s as his chief-of-staff gave him what was likely an hourly update.  When he looked up, he smiled at the foreign minister.  “Relena!  You look wonderful.  How are you?”  He reached for her hand and placed a courtly kiss on her knuckles.

“Fine,” she answered with a delighted smile and I focused on keeping an eye on the milling crowd of press members, wondering how many would stoop to selling candid photos to the tabloids.  “Politics and outer space both agree with you,” she complimented.  Then, to my surprise, I heard her say with palpable warmth, “Gerald.  How are you?  Aside from busy working?”

I glanced up in time to watch her clasp his hand in both of hers.

“You took the words out of my mouth, Relena.”

“Politicians tend to do that,” she replied unrepentantly.

“I’ve never held it against you,” he answered in an amusing monotone.

“And I’ve always considered that one of your finer qualities.  How is Mia?”

“She hates biology,” Yuy answered in a tone that was almost shy.  Very few people knew that he still kept in touch with Khushrenada’s daughter.

Relena laughed.  “So did I at her age.”

A bell chimed, announcing the time.  The press conference was set to begin.  The delegates and their staff headed for the stage with its long table and forest of microphones.

“Foreign Minister?” I prompted and stiffened when she took my arm.

“Yes, let’s get started,” she agreed, blithely ignoring my discomfort.  I was on duty.  She should not be making an obstacle of herself thus, but she was insistent.  She nodded toward the table.  “If you would, Agent Chang?”

I glared briefly and her, at Yuy, at Winner, at the room and world in general.  But what else could I expect from an assignment which equated to glorified babysitting?  “Very well.”

I escorted her to her seat at the center of the long table and held her chair out for her, pushing it in carefully as she sat.

“Well, whaddya know,” Schbeiker muttered at me out of the corner of her mouth.  “You do know your manners.”

I scowled.  She grinned.  The foreign minister turned on her microphone and called the press corps to attention for the summit’s opening remarks.  I suspected that, schedule or no, it was destined to be an excruciatingly long evening.

I was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like... it's totally OK if you wanna leave a comment for me about something you liked. IT IS TOTALLY OK. *ahem* Just clearing that up just in case there was some confusion. (^_~)


	3. Lipstick Messages and Necessary Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politicians are noisy when you try to strangle them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The news reporter, Manning Wilhelm, we met in the previous chapter is briefly mentioned in "Two out of Three", Chapter 5: Setting in a Honeymoon.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Maxwell interrupted, holding up his hands as if all five of the table’s occupants were on the verge of drawing their concealed weapons and commencing with a Mexican standoff.  He leaned an irreverent elbow on the pristine, cloth-covered tabletop and grinned.  “Make that face again,” he requested of me, his eyes glittering evilly.  “The one that makes your nose scrunch up and your lip curl.”

“What?”

“Describe that Manning guy one more time,” he insisted, thoroughly entertained by my irritation.  I, on the other hand, was not amused.

“Most news anchors are just like him,” Winner contributed with a frankness that was not reassuring, especially considering that the summit, which was completely open to the press, would last an additional forty hours.

Cursed assignment.  Could Director Une have given us an international smuggling ring to bring to its knees?  Or possibly sent us into the field to obliterate an illegal drug lab?  _Anything_ would have been better than protecting posturing politicians from the supposedly rabid press corps.  And my tasks did not even provide me with that little bit of satisfaction.  Every single plastic-faced reporter was perfectly behaved.  They were little more than a line of well-heeled greyhounds.  The lot of them turned my stomach.

“You and Hilde hit it off?” Maxwell asked suddenly, slumping back in his seat.  His left hand disappeared beneath the table where he was probably groping his embarrassingly-tolerant spouse.

“In a manner of speaking,” I allowed flatly, ending that topic.

“Damn,” he continued, turning to Yuy.  “Help me out here, Gerald.  Talking to this guy is like pulling the slimy teeth outta a spitting Siberian yak with nuthin’ but a freakin’ jockstrap.”

“How would you know?” Barton muttered in a barely-audible aside.

“Thank you for that,” I drawled, sliding my half-full teacup away from my place setting.  For obvious reasons.  “Spectacularly vivid and utterly random.  As usual.”

“I aim to please.”  Maxwell winked.

Barton reached for his coffee cup, which was empty, and signaled a hovering server for a refill.  The fact that it was nearly midnight meant nothing to him.  Nor to the restaurant kitchen which apparently still had hot coffee on hand.  What was more telling was the fact that he could actually feel the urge to drink that swill not ten seconds after the yak remark.  I suppose it was true: human beings truly did have the capacity to adapt to even the most unimaginably wretched living conditions.  Life with Maxwell undoubtedly qualified as that.

“Cheer up, Wufei,” Maxwell continued.  “Or we’re gonna have to ask the restaurant staff to start up the karaoke machine.”

“It’s not like you to threaten a man with a head injury,” Winner chirped at Maxwell.

“Er… it isn’t?”

“Sarcasm,” Barton remarked with an appreciative tone, toasting both of them with his now-full cup.

“Gets us over all those awkward conversational speed bumps,” Maxwell agreed.  He then plucked Barton’s coffee cup from his hand and took a noisy sip.

“Fantastic,” I growled.  “More caffeine is precisely what you need.”

Maxwell returned the cup to Barton’s grasp, opened his mouth to retort—

_Beep-beep!  Beep-beep!_

“Tell me that’s a bomb you have in your pocket,” Maxwell implored, fingers twitching eagerly.

“In a manner of speaking,” Barton contributed dryly, quoting my earlier comment verbatim as he captured one of Maxwell’s hands in his in what was clearly a restraining gesture.  For which I was grateful.

Unfortunately, he was correct about the summons equaling an explosive blast of devastating proportions.  I glanced at the cell phone’s caller ID screen and swore.

“Politicians are high maintenance,” Winner observed, hiding a grin behind his water glass.

“And very noisy when you try to strangle them,” Yuy added cryptically.

Maxwell snorted with humor.  “And chiefs-of-staff know all the best places to hide bodies?”

“There’s a story in that,” Barton guessed astutely, giving Yuy a laser-esque look.

“Which I am not going to hear tonight,” I said, scowling as I listened to the message left on the phone’s voice mail service.  It was from Schbeiker and there’d been an… _incident_ at the ESUN compound that required our immediate attention.  “I have to go.”

Maxwell held up a hand before I could do more than reach for my wallet.  “We’ve got this, man.”

“I am perfectly capable of—”

“—buying the first round when we get back from Egypt.  Go take some names and kick some ass.”

I smirked as I stood and pushed my chair in.  “That,” I informed him, “is a given.”

Traffic at this time of night was minimal; I pulled up to the ESUN security checkpoint and parked in the designated area less than twenty minutes later.  At the main entrance, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Schbeiker’s number.

She dispensed with the greetings entirely.  “Where are you?”

“I’ve just arrived,” I informed her.

“We’re in the north wing, third floor.  Call me back if you get lost.”

She hung up.  Reflecting on the brevity of the conversation, I realized it had almost been like talking to Yuy.  Interesting.

I took the stairs and strode toward the indicated corridor.  Given that she hadn’t bothered to tell me which room I was headed for, I expected to see one of the doors along that hall standing open.  To facilitate the successful completion of our assignment, I’d committed the building layout to memory.  The last door, which so happened to lead to the foreign minister’s private apartment, was open a crack, spilling a sharp beam of light into the softly lit corridor.

Rapping my knuckles upon the door, I then heard a slight rustle, like the sound of someone rising from an upholstered chair, and Schbeiker called out quietly, “Enter.”

Stepping into the room, I shut the door behind me and swept the premises for the supposed disturbance, but the only thing that seemed out of place in the extravagant sitting room was the foreign minister’s stockinged feet.  She was still dressed in the navy suit she’d worn to the press conference.  Her hair looked rather flat and her eyes had shadows beneath them.

Narrowly avoiding tangling my foot in the carelessly sprawled shoulder strap of Schbeiker’s laptop case, which was leaning against the wall by the front door, I demanded, “What’s the situation?”

She nodded toward an open door at the far side of the room.  Before she could say anything, her cell phone rang.  She glanced at the caller ID before answering.  “Schbeiker.”

“May I?” I asked the foreign minister, gesturing to the door.

“Please,” she answered although she made no move to accompany me.

The moment I pushed open the door, I could understand why.  The room beyond may have once been a luxurious bedroom with a walk-in wardrobe and en suite bath.  The closet and the bathroom both appeared to be in pristine condition from my current vantage point just a step and a half past the threshold.  The main room itself…  Well, what it had once looked like, I could only imagine.

The pillows and the mattress on the bed had been slashed; feathers still floated in the air from when I’d pushed open the door, stirring them from tentative perches.  On the walls, angry red marks had been slashed across the silk wallpaper.  The ladies’ vanity had been ransacked – the contents of the drawers strewn about – and several chairs with cushions torn had been overturned.

I didn’t venture any further as I was not equipped to enter a crime scene.  If, in fact, that was what I was looking at.  I pivoted back around, sparing the back of the door only a glance, but something caught my eye and I paused.  Nudging the door back toward its frame, I read the message that had been angrily scrawled upon the white lacquered surface:

STAy AWAY FRoM THAT BASTARD GuNDAm PiLOT, MY ReLEnA

I leaned closer, peering at the thick, waxy, red lines.  They weren’t blood.  Perhaps some kind of oil paint?  I toed the door open again and glanced Schbeiker’s way.  She was sitting opposite the foreign minister, cell phone still held at the ready in one hand as she passed on some message or other.

I cleared my throat and, when she glanced up, I motioned for her to join me.  She gave Foreign Minister Darlian a reassuring smile before marching over.

I kept my voice low.  “Have you seen the message?”

“Yes.  It’s written in red lipstick.  _Not_ the foreign minister’s.”

So certain of that was she?  “She told you that?”

“Yes.  She doesn’t wear it or keep any here.  We’ll have the lab techs test it to see if we can determine when it might have been applied in addition to the manufacturer and shade.”

I scanned the room.  “No video surveillance.”

It was an observation that Schbeiker had the good sense to lament along with me.  With a grimace, she confirmed, “Not in the private apartments or corridors in the residential wings, no.  ESUN security has just told me they’ve called up tonight’s video recordings.  We can go down and view them as soon as the forensics team arrives.”

“No forensics,” the foreign minister interjected in a quiet, firm tone.

Schbeiker turned and frowned at her before I could claim the pleasure.  “It’s a crime scene.”

“Unless you can prove that someone broke into my rooms and did this, then it isn’t.”

I interjected, “Are you telling us that _you_ did this?”

“Of course not.  But I’d prefer it if we handled this quietly.”

Of course she would.  She was a politician, after all.

She continued, “Once you consult the security footage, you’ll see that I was working in my office on the second floor until approximately half past eleven.  When I came up here to go to bed, I found this.”  The foreign minister gestured to the room.  “I called Agent Schbeiker immediately.”

I narrowed my eyes and probed, “And not your own security staff?”

Her lips tightened.  “I cannot be sure that a member of my staff was not involved in this in the first place.  Agent Schbeiker and yourself are… impartial.”

Reaching out to the other woman, Schbeiker put a hand on her shoulder and guided her back to the living room.  “We need to take some pictures.  After that, you’ll have to check and see if anything’s missing.”

Relena Darlian nodded wearily.  “Fine, but please do not call forensics.  I have a responsibility to the summit delegates to provide an atmosphere conducive to our talks.  An official investigation would be far too disruptive right now.”

“You don’t understand,” Schbeiker began, “we _have_ to call forensics.  This is a crime scene.  It’s damage to government property.”

The foreign minister sighed.  “Can you at least select a team that is discreet?”

“Of course,” Schbeiker allowed with generosity that – for her sake – had better not translate into providing refreshments to suspects during their interrogations.

I added curtly, “But we reserve the right to call upon _all_ the resources at our disposal if deemed necessary.”

I was mildly surprised when Schbeiker backed me up with a nod.  She then lifted her cell phone, keying in a number.  She kept one hand on the foreign minister’s shoulder as if she expected the woman to crumple into a heap on the floor.  “I haven’t called the director yet,” she told me.

I would have asked her just who she _was_ calling, but she was already putting the phone to her ear and giving me a significant look.

With a sigh, I pulled out my own cell phone and called to appraise the director of the situation.  It was a brief conversation.  She promised to send a minimal team of two trustworthy technicians with instructions to take an unmarked car and enter the building via the underground parking entrance.  We hung up.

“I’ve asked the security checkpoint for a copy of today’s gate activity,” Schbeiker volunteered before turning back to the foreign minister.  “You said earlier that you left your rooms at six-thirty this morning and have not been back since?”

“That’s right.  My office has an attached suite where I could get ready for the press conference.  I didn’t have any reason to come back here during the day.”

That left a significant amount of video footage to review.  Since the message that had been scrawled onto the bedroom-facing side of the door mentioned a Gundam pilot, it would be easy to assume that the perpetrator had been in these rooms sometime _after_ the press conference.  After all, the press conference had been the venue in which the foreign minister had been seen greeting the colonies’ newest representative, Quatre Raberba Winner, who was a well-known former Gundam pilot.

Assumptions like that could be dangerous, however.  If the vandal was a member of Relena’s staff, then it would be more than reasonable to assume that they’d known in advance whom she’d be meeting.  Perhaps weeks in advance.

“Has anything similar to this occurred before?” I demanded.

Foreign Minister Darlian shook her head.

“Have you received any threatening correspondence?”

“My personal assistant, Sylvia, handles the mail and filters my email inbox.”

“We’ll need to speak with her.”

“Of course.  She’s probably still awake.  Shall I call her now?”

“Please,” Schbeiker approved and, ten minutes later, as we were listening to Miss Sylvia Noventa report an impressive list of names from her boss’ plentiful fan mail, two plain-clothes forensics technicians arrived, each with a rolling suitcase in tow.

“If you would wait here with the foreign minister,” Schbeiker told the assistant, “we’ll go down and check the video footage from the security cameras.”

“We need to appraise Mr. Winner of the situation,” I recommended after Schbeiker and I had descended to the first floor and entered the unadorned staff hallway that served the ESUN surveillance hub.

“Quatre?” Schbeiker echoed.  “Why do you assume the message referred to him?  You, _Wufei Chang,_ have also piloted a Gundam _and_ you were in close proximity to the foreign minister at the press conference.”

I scowled.  They were both valid points.

“And besides, in a contest between you and Quatre, how likely is it that someone would call him a ‘bastard’?”

I huffed, reluctantly amused at the frank appraisal.  “True.”

Pausing beside the door separating us from our destination, I indulged in a moment to consider how best to handle the situation.  If Schbeiker’s points were true, if _I_ was the Gundam pilot that had precipitated the “warning” message left on the foreign minister’s bedroom door, then the safest thing for Relena Darlian would be for me to—

Schbeiker gave me a sidelong glance.  “Don’t even _think_ about removing yourself from this assignment.”

It should have irritated me that she’d so easily read my mind.  “You mean to lure the perpetrator out, then?  By dangling me in front of his nose?”

“Of course.  Just keep offering your arm to Relena and holding out her chair… maybe even go in for a peck on the cheek!  That’ll really steam the guy’s dim sum.”

I ignored the latter, ludicrous suggestion.  “And if he’s a member of the staff?” I challenged, reminding her that it would be foolish to rely solely on ESUN employees to assist with the identification of the individual that we were not _officially_ looking for.

She winked and the gesture was 100% Maxwell.  “We have our own staff.”

“That will aid us unobtrusively?”  I was relatively certain that the foreign minister would obnoxiously insist on this point.

Schbeiker’s grin was confident.  “I know a guy…”

I opened my mouth to investigate the issue, but she chose that moment to bang on the metal door and it swung open almost immediately.  The ESUN main security room was adequately staffed and all the equipment appeared to be operational.  Which meant that they should have been able to detect and intercept the intruder.

We went over the security feed from the third floor public access corridor of the north wing.  We then checked the outdoor surveillance for signs of external entry.  All routes leading to the foreign minister’s apartment were carefully reviewed by both Schbeiker and myself.  But there were no indications that anyone, not even the maid service, had entered the foreign minister’s apartment at any point during the day.  The trespasser had clearly known precisely where the cameras were located and used that to his or her advantage.

Schbeiker pulled out her cell phone yet again and made a call while I dictated instructions to the security staff for sending copies of the day’s video footage to Preventers HQ.  They practically _twitched_ with curiosity, but all I told them was, “Your procedures are being audited.”

“That was evil,” Schbeiker approved as we left the room.

“Thank you,” I replied.  My thoughts immediately turned to the unsatisfying results of our investigation thus far.  If there was even the slightest chance that the perpetrator was versed in the workings of surveillance technology – and it appeared that there was – then catching him or her was going to be challenging.  We’d need an expert on our side to bring this situation to an immediate and unobtrusive resolution.

I retrieved my phone from my pocket once more and punched in a familiar number.

The greeting was brief and to the point given the fact that my name had just flashed across the caller ID on his cell phone.  “Yes?”

“Your unique skill sets are required.  I’ll explain when you get to the ESUN headquarters.  Use the underground entrance.  Meet in the north wing, third floor, last door on the left.”

There was brief pause as my requests were processed.  He didn’t ask for specifics.  “Roger that.  I’ll just confirm with—hm.  Never mind.  We’ll be there within the hour.”

I frowned at the phone as the line went dead.

“I bet my guy’s gonna beat the pants off _your_ guy,” Schbeiker dared.

I was almost tempted to place a wager on it, Maxwell style.

We headed out to the guard station to collect the visitor logs and I sighed at the thought of _more_ tedious paperwork.  I’d spent two hours reviewing the background checks from the delegates’ chiefs-of-staff before managing to arrive at the restaurant where Winner had reserved a table for our reunion.  I’d been forty-five minutes late and nursing a severe headache due to eyestrain.

“My laptop’s upstairs,” Schbeiker volunteered.

“In my car,” I replied.

She nodded.  “Let’s get started on these while we wait for the team to wrap things up.”

I detoured back to the underground parking facility while she returned to the foreign minister’s suite.  By the time I made it back there, she’d already set up an impromptu office in Foreign Minister Darlian’s living quarters.  I placed my computer on the first available flat surface and began the arduous task of corroborating the arrival and departure of each visitor to the ESUN via city traffic cameras.

The forensics team was still processing the crime scene when someone knocked on the door, startling the foreign minister from her doze.  On the room’s second sofa, her personal assistant slept on.  Relishing the excuse to stretch my legs and rest my eyes, I got up to answer it before Schbeiker thought to do the same.

Cursing the lack of a peephole, I opened the door with caution, angling my foot and shoulder to prevent unauthorized entry.  “Yes?” I growled.

“Hey hey!  I betcha didn’t think we’d be gettin’ together again this soon, eh?”

“Cross,” I ground out, opening the door.

Maxwell strutted into the room with a bulging backpack slung over one shoulder.  “Agent Chang,” he greeted and then headed straight for Schbeiker.  “Yo, Hil!  Whatcha need?”

I blinked at him as Schbeiker stood to accept a brisk hug.  Maxwell waved at the foreign minister over her shoulder.  “Relena!  We’ve gotta stop running into each other like this.”

The foreign minister gave him a tired smile.  “I wholeheartedly agree, JC.”

“A rhyme,” he observed with a cocky grin.  “Nice.”

“He left you holding the door, hm?”

I looked back and found Barton standing on the threshold, a duffel bag held in one hand.  The other was in his pants pocket, as causal as could be.

“And left you holding the bag,” I retorted as he stepped inside.

Barton gave me a secretive grin.  It was mostly concealed by his hair but, after more than three years of marriage to Duo Maxwell, it was a fairly regular feature on the man’s face.  I was accustomed to looking for it by now.  “Would you like to see what’s in it, officer?” he parried.

“Yes,” I shot back, “let’s play show and tell as we have all the time in the world on our hands.”

“You and Hilde are off to a great start, I see,” he observed abruptly.

“What?”

“Oh, you’re _not_ tweaked because her call got through to JC before yours got through to me?”

That explained the abruptness of the phone conversation earlier, _but—_   “Tweaked?” I spat.  I distantly recalled a time when Barton’s vocabulary had possessed something resembling integrity.  “Did Cross teach you that one?”

Barton’s smile widened.  “And more.”  Thankfully, he did not elaborate or provide examples.

“Hey, Armstrong,” Maxwell called, gesturing.  “Join the briefing, man.”

We moved back into the room and a motion from the second sofa caught my eye.  The foreign minister’s assistant had been woken up by the commotion.  “Miss Darlian,” she began, “if this is going to take much longer, maybe you should consider—”

What the foreign minister ought to consider was left unvoiced.  Miss Noventa’s gaze flickered in Barton’s direction and her attention was inexplicably snagged upon him.  “I know you,” she said abruptly, “don’t I?”

“Aw, shit,” I heard Maxwell mutter.  I doubted that either Foreign Minister Darlian or her assistant caught it, though.

Barton nodded, his face utterly expressionless.  Disturbingly so.  I glanced in Maxwell’s direction.  He had also slipped into his wartime persona, a mysterious and knowing smirk plastered on his face.  I doubted he actually knew what was going on here anymore than I did but, given the tensile strength of Maxwell’s mask, it was guaranteed that no indication of what he was truly thinking would slip through.

Barton said, “After your grandfather’s death, you received a visit from a young man…”

Her expression cleared.  “Oh!  Yes.  You were the driver of the truck.”  She stood and offered her hand.  “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Barton took it briefly, tilting his head to the side as he did so.  “If only the circumstances could be different.”

“Yeah,” Maxwell interjected softly.  “You didn’t see us here, OK, miss?”  He then glanced at her employer and, with a theatrical wince, tacked on an addendum, “You, either, Relena.”

The foreign minister stood.  “If you were about to suggest that I sleep on the sofa in my office, Sylvia, I think that would be a good idea.  I hate to impose, but could I perhaps borrow some sleepwear from you?”

“Of course, Miss Relena.”

“Agent Schbeiker,” the foreign minister said in a peculiar tone, as if reminding the other woman of something previously agreed upon.

“It will be handled quietly,” Schbeiker promised.  Rashly, I thought.

“I’ll see you to your office,” I offered.  “I should be back before forensics is through in there.”  I nodded toward the closed bedroom door, letting Maxwell and Barton know that there were other potential witnesses in the vicinity.

Both nodded once in acknowledgement and I ushered the foreign minister and her assistant into the hall just as Schbeiker said softly, “I’m sorry I had to call, but you two are the best.”

“The _unofficial_ and _uncorroborated_ best,” Maxwell corrected.  “So, what’s the situa—”

At that point, the door swung shut and I followed Miss Noventa’s directions, leading both women to the assistant’s personal quarters.  None of the hallways we took were equipped with surveillance.  The building was a maze, one which the perpetrator seemed to be very familiar with.  So we were back to looking at the ESUN building staff as suspects.

I waited in the hall as Miss Noventa unlocked her door and invited the foreign minister in.  They left the door open and I mulled over all the possible residential corridors that might have provided an unobstructed path for the foreign minister’s uninvited guest.  At some point he or she must have been under the watchful eye of a video camera.  Tracing all the paths back to public spaces would be our next task.  Or, rather, it would be Barton’s and Maxwell’s.

“I really appreciate this, Sylvia,” the foreign minister whispered as the woman handed over a towel-wrapped bundle to her boss.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more to help.”

“Do _you_ require assistance?” I asked, sending a pointed look in the direction of the apartment beyond.

“No, thank you.  My room hasn’t been disturbed.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.  As you can see, it’s much smaller than Miss Darlian’s.”  She gestured behind her and I took the implied invitation, scanning the area.  Indeed, a perpetrator would have to be a contortionist to fit in the wardrobe or under the bed.

“Still,” the foreign minister pressed, “I’d feel better if you’d let Agent Chang take a look.”

She startled.  “Oh.  Uh, yes.  Yes, of course.”

Both women waited just inside the closed door as I inspected the room.  I checked that the windows were locked and the security alarm connections in good repair.  The bedside telephone was in service.  In the small en suite bathroom, I searched for utilities access panels which might serve as potential entrances.

Regardless, everything was in order here, but before I rejoined the foreign minister at the door, I checked Sylvia Noventa’s personal effects on the vanity.  There was a tube of lipstick amongst the array of bottles and containers, but a quick check revealed it to be a shade of light pink.  The waste baskets didn’t appear to hold anything suspicious.  Nothing found or gained, I left the bathroom and nodded with satisfaction.

“I’ll escort you down to your office, Foreign Minister,” I concluded.

“Call me if there’s anything I can do,” Miss Noventa told her employer.

The foreign minister smiled reassuringly, as if she encountered situations like this every day.  “I’ll see you at breakfast.  The usual time.”

“Yes, Miss Relena.”

We left and I waited until I heard the deadbolt turn and the soft beep of the room’s security system locking down.

Once we were taking the stairs down to the second floor, the foreign minister asked, “Did you find anything?”

I gave her a look.  I could not determine from her expression or tone if she had suspicions regarding her personal assistant or if she was afraid the other woman would also be targeted.

“No,” I replied shortly.

She let out a breath.  “Thank you, Agent Chang.”

We crossed the remaining distance in silence.  I inspected her office and the attached private rooms, questioned her to be sure she’d memorized my cell phone number as well as Schbeiker’s, ordered her to lock the door behind me, and went back upstairs.

“Good timing,” Maxwell said as I entered the room.  “The forensics guys are making noises like they’re wrapping things up in there.  Set us up, pal.”

I didn’t bother to shut the door behind me.  Barton and Maxwell stepped over the threshold toting their bags of modern miracles just as the bedroom door knob turned.  Schbeiker handed me my laptop case and files.

“Go home,” she said.  “Let’s pick this up again at 730 hours.”  Then she moved to intercept the forensics team, to both delay them and request a briefing of their initial findings.  I closed the door between us.

“This way,” I said.

The ESUN building layout and room assignments now made themselves useful.  I led Barton and Maxwell along the private corridors to an empty office suite on the second floor, in a separate wing from the foreign minister’s.

“As you’ve no doubt noticed, there are several routes which are not regularly watched or patrolled by security,” I remarked, gesturing them into the small suite of rooms.

“So we’re looking at staff members,” Maxwell summarized.

I grunted.  “There may be utilities access panels in the building.”

“We’ll look up the blueprints ourselves,” Barton told me.

I didn’t doubt that they could and would.  Restricted access was hardly a deterrent to either man.  I suspected that Maxwell and Barton had used something of that nature to disable the power grid at WEI all those years ago.  I didn’t doubt that they’d confirm my suspicions if I asked, but some things were better left in the past.

At least until the statute of limitations expired.

But, as both Maxwell and Barton were considering the possibility that the intruder had used service routes to bypass the private corridors entirely, I offered up a third explanation:

“I’m implementing a security audit in the morning.”

“Ah,” Maxwell remarked as he checked over the windows while Barton crouched down to inspect the phone jack.  “So we are definitely ruling out dumb luck.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response.

“Do you suspect malfunctioning or mis-calibrated equipment?” Barton inquired.

“I’ve no reason to,” I admitted.

“So we’re back to looking at staff and guests,” Duo said.  “Get your people going through bank records looking for payoffs.  Tris and I ain’t touchin’ that mess.  We’ve got enough to keep us busy.”

“Agreed.”  Schbeiker and I were asking two men to cover the surveillance for an entire seventy-room mansion.  It was more than enough work for a team of twelve.  If not for the foreign minister’s insistence on _keeping things quiet,_ I never would have had to call on my former comrades at all.

“I can’t give you copies of the background checks or any information on the summit delegates,” I told them as they finally accepted the premises as sufficiently secure.  Each man placed their bags on the empty desk and began moving the furniture around.  To what end, I wasn’t sure.  I continued, “but if I happen to forget something here before I leave for the night…”  I set the files down on the top of a short filing cabinet.

“Huh?  What were you saying?” Maxwell asked airily, shoving an empty printer table over beside the desk.

Barton smiled as he positioned a second chair behind the now-elongated workspace.  They worked in concert; they’d done something like this before.  Perhaps many times.

“Do not be seen,” I ordered them by way of a farewell.

“We’ll call you if there’s need,” Barton promised.

Hand on the doorknob, I paused.  “My apologies regarding your vacation plans.”

Maxwell snorted.  “No worries, man.  I’ve got _toys_ to keep me occupied.”

“I’m hurt,” Barton informed him.

“Aw, don’t be like that, babe.  In quality versus quantity, you’ve got ‘em beat hands _down.”_

Dear ancestors but it was a miracle these two managed to successfully pilot large aircraft in tandem.  I highly doubted they managed to keep their hands off of each other for all but five minutes out of every hour.  Clearly, the task of locating the perpetrator would fall at the feet of Schbeiker and myself.  I adjusted my expectations with regards to Barton and Maxwell’s contributions accordingly and turned to leave.

Maxwell stopped me.  “Whatever we see or find is not gonna be admissible in court; no judge is ever gonna issue a warrant on it.  We are officially on vacation somewhere else.  We were never here.  You got all that?”

“I understand.”

“You don’t,” Barton retorted, “but it’s better that way.”

I gave them an expectant look.  They gazed back at me, obviously waiting for me to leave before unzipping the duffel and backpack.

“Don’t come back here without calling first,” Maxwell instructed, his face as deadly as his Gundam had once been.

Hm.  Perhaps I needn’t lower my expectations after all.

I nodded and closed the door behind me.  Only then did I let the smile that was teasing my lips show itself.  Maxwell might act the part of the fool and Barton might indulge him, but they were both deadly-effective allies in any battle.  If the suspect wasn’t apprehended by the end of the following day, I would be very surprised.

Surprised and displeased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't noticed yet, my love for Duo and Trowa in all their wedded glory is unabated. So there will be more from and about them in this fic as Wufei works through his issues. (I think Wufei sees Duo and Trowa as a touchstone at this point; Quatre and Heero have "abandoned" him but Duo and Trowa haven't changed at all. That's why Wufei spends so much effort "noticing" them. Not because I'm compelled to write them. Noooo, not at all.)


	4. Outside the Lines

There were basically two kinds of people in the world.  (And a migraine-inducing number of irritating subsets, but let’s set those aside for the moment.)  The first type is relatively docile, herd-like, and will happily hide in the back of a neo-steel reinforced closet until the world is once again a seemingly safe and happy place.  (Which it is not, but using logic on people in this group is not only pointless and a complete waste of time, but minutes of your life which will never be returned to you.)

The second type could be summarized in two words: Relena Darlian.

“This,” I informed her at breakfast the following morning, “is not a good idea.”

Schbeiker sat across from me on the foreign minister’s left while the woman’s personal assistant perched nervously on a chair beside mine.  Her tension irritated me even more than I already was.  Had I not been perfectly courteous to her the night before?  Hadn’t I been suitably reassuring when I’d looked over her quarters for signs of the boogeyman?

Regardless, I did not have business with either Sylvia Noventa or her nervous twitch.  It was her employer upon whom I had locked my attention.  What we needed was to have a _private_ conversation about the foreign minister’s schedule for the remainder of the conference, but she was refusing to be reasonable about it.  The end result being that Schbeiker and I were forced to discuss matters that the foreign minister _herself_ had insisted on keeping private in the middle of a massive banquet hall filled with politicians, their lackeys, and members of the press from every major network morning news show on the continent.

So, what _is_ the aforementioned second type of people, you ask?  Those who could neither be reasoned with nor intimidated.  They were a threat to themselves and anyone stupid enough to get roped into trying to keep them alive.

There was no justice in the world.  Mark my words.

“I disagree, Agent Chang.  It’s a wonderful idea,” the foreign minister replied with bland reassurance.  “And all of us will welcome the break after the morning discussions.”

Perhaps a break would be called for.  So much hot air in a confined space was bound to result in a case of combustion to rival the historic tragedy of the Hindenburg.  Still, I highly doubted that overseeing a visiting kindergarten class and helping them color their own commemorative pictures of the Flag of Peace was going to fit the bill. 

Even if it would look good on camera.  Which was, essentially, the rationale behind the arrangement.

It was a generally accepted truth that while politicians were eager to kiss babies, they regularly excused themselves from actual parenting, preferring to employ more maternally-inclined, less economically-fortunate others to handle their progeny.  I did not trust politicians in general, most especially those who were absentee parents.  If a man or woman could not be bothered to look after the daily needs of their own flesh and blood, then what possible interest could they have in the welfare of their constituents?

But those thoughts were for another time.  The matter at hand today was not how awkward the session break was going to go.  The matter at hand was how best to handle foreign minister’s mattress-and-pillow-slashing, lipstick-message-writing visitor.

I’d placed a conference call to Winner and Yukitani upon returning to my apartment last night (well, _very_ early this morning) to appraise them of the threat which had been left for the foreign minister.  I hadn’t been authorized to tell them the details of the investigation itself, but I’d passed on the message that had been left behind verbatim.

“Wufei, I appreciate you bringing this to our attention, but I can’t let it affect how I interact with the other delegates,” Winner had replied in a tone that had been just apologetic enough to make me want to strangle him until he squeaked for mercy.

“I disagree, Quatre,” Yuy had quickly and _sanely_ interjected.  “You will need to avoid Relena whenever possible.”

“Well, that will be _impossible._   I represent the interests of a number of colonies and, as such, I _must_ speak with Earth’s foreign minister.”

“Speak from a distance,” Yuy had directed.

Winner had argued persuasively, “And if, in doing so, this sick individual slips away?  Until something new sets him off, of course.  And then what?  Will it be a _physical_ attack next time?  We should push him to reveal himself now while we have the manpower and the means to take advantage of the situation when he makes a mistake.”

All good points.  But he was neglecting to address one very worrisome issue: if the ESUN security staff had been up to the task, then they would have caught the trespasser before he’d had the chance to tear through the foreign minister’s bedroom with all the enthusiasm of a rabid hyena in the first place.

Yuy had not been pleased with Winner’s argument or with the implications of my telling silence.  He’d doggedly insisted, “It is my job to protect _you,_ Quatre.  Let Relena’s people handle this.”

Which dropped the problem squarely in _my_ lap, where it unfortunately belonged.

Winner had irritatingly objected, “That message might not have been referring to me at all!  Wufei, you—”

“Yes, I realize that I am just as well-known for being a former Gundam pilot as you.”

“What’s your strategy?” Yuy had demanded.

“You are well aware of the fact that I cannot give you details regarding an ongoing investigation.  You and Winner will determine the best course of action for yourselves.  I am not authorized to request your cooperation at this time.”

I’d hung up before either could attempt to convince me otherwise.  A misting of guilt had followed in the wake of that call; it had gone against three years of well-developed habits for me to resist the inclination to back Yuy and remain impartial in their disagreement.

Perhaps the difficulty I was experiencing now with regards to persuading Foreign Minister Darlian of the pure, reckless stupidity of inviting three dozen defenseless children into this situation could be explained with two words: karmic retribution.

“Foreign minister,” I began, biting off each word through my teeth, “if you are incapable of considering the bigger picture, then—”

Someone kicked me beneath the table.  I growled at Schbeiker who was stirring sugar into her coffee as if she were on the verge of inventing the world’s smallest fusion reactor.

“We’re both very concerned, Miss Relena,” Schbeiker cajoled, translating common sense into something fluffy and easily digestible.  It would likely also cause cavities and gingivitis.  “But please, help us do a better job of assisting _you.”_

I pulled my hands beneath the surface of the table to keep myself from seeking out the nearest butter knife.  With the right application of force, almost any household implement could become a deadly weapon.

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” the foreign minister insisted with nauseating earnestness.  “ESUN security will escort the children onto the premises and the two of you will be there to oversee the event itself.  I am sure everything will go splendidly.”

Two capable adults in a room filled to bursting with five-year-olds, politicians, and the press.  Oh, yes.  This was going to be _too_ easy.

Schbeiker sighed.

“Foreign Minister Darlian!  Good morning!”

I gritted my teeth and tried not to allow the oxygen from my next breath to fuel my temper into an explosion of volcanic proportions.

“Mister Winner!” she greeted, standing and offering her hand.  As Winner bowed over her fingers and allowed her to introduce him to her assistant – “Though you’ve often spoken on the phone, I don’t believe you’ve met Sylvia Noventa in person?” – I swept the room for signs of _anyone_ paying especially intense attention to the exchange.  Schbeiker’s gaze roved over the scene as well from beneath her lashes.  Yuy’s job required that he be more obvious, but he supplemented his own scan with a nod to other chiefs-of-staff with whom he inadvertently made eye contact.

No one lunged for our table, crazed with fury and frothing at the mouth.  Not even when Winner accepted the seat on the other side of the foreign minister.  For a moment, I almost pitied Yuy.  It appeared that his day was going about as well as mine.  I was looking forward to locking everyone in the conference room just so I could enjoy five minutes of relative peace.

“Have a seat, Gerald,” Winner insisted, gesturing to the chair beside Miss Noventa.

“I’ll stand,” he ground out, giving a nod of greeting to Miss Noventa.  She returned the acknowledgement with a smile.  So, those two were also acquainted.  I thought back to Barton’s remark the night before.  Could he have been referring to Yuy as the young man who had sought out Miss Noventa?  Now was certainly _not_ the time to indulge in a visit, however.

I hid a smirk behind my cup as Yuy loomed petulantly over the foreign minister’s chair.  From the way her gaze flickered in his direction, I knew she was well aware of where he had stationed himself, but she refused to let it dislodge her smile.

“I’m looking forward to your remarks today,” she told Winner as he leaned back so that one of the abundant and attentive servers could pour his coffee and supply him with a breadbasket.

“And I yours,” he replied.  “I’m especially curious as to your reasoning regarding today’s extracurricular event.”

“Oh?”

Winner grinned and the expression was almost sly.  “Of course!  Forcing a dozen politicians to sit down with the next generation should soften them up for the afternoon negotiations.  Or was there some other aim involved?”

Miss Noventa laughed softly.

The foreign minister made a production of sighing forlornly.  “Sylvia, you’ve ruined the surprise.”

“My apologies, Miss Relena,” she responded with a poor attempt at contrition.

But when Winner winked at the woman, she didn’t look all that apologetic.  Rather, she looked a bit flushed.

It was a relief when the chime sounded announcing the start of the morning session.  Yuy helped the foreign minister with her chair and she mistook a gesture for her to precede me as an invitation to take my arm.  Damned woman.  Ahead of us, I was certain that Schbeiker was grinning her fool head off.

At the entrance to the auditorium which would serve as the discussion room, I endeavored to slow her march down to a crawl by digging my heels into the gaudy gold carpet.  It was obviously new and, in addition, it was as lumpy as it was ugly.  As per government spending policies, the individual who had selected the color had clearly been as equally qualified as the one given the task of installing it.

_Ancestors, save us from ourselves._

Luckily, interior decorating was not a component of my current assignment.

“Foreign Minister Darlian,” I attempted to – once again – warn her.

She patted my arm.  “I have every faith in you, Agent Chang.”

“I’ll be watching from upstairs,” Schbeiker informed me with a teasing wink – damn these people and their chronic eye disorders – and then followed the press corps up to the observation deck overlooking the arena.

As I led the foreign minister to her seat, I muttered, “Let us hope I will be able to leap in front of the bullet you are courting.”

She stiffened.  I stepped back and took up a post along the wall beside the other heads of security.

I was relatively certain that the hours which followed were the longest of my life.  By _far._   It appeared that until this wretched summit was either concluded, I would be swinging like a pendulum between the extremes of teeth-gnashing frustration and mind-liquefying ennui.

How delightful.

I glanced in Yuy’s direction more than once and marveled that his eyes hadn’t glazed over yet.  Perhaps he was performing some sort of mental calisthenics.  But, on the off-chance that he wasn’t, I resolved not to ask him.  While I could count on the man to follow through with whatever assignment he’d been given, the inside of Yuy’s mind was not a place I have ever been eager to explore.  Most notably when the conversation was likely to turn toward the topic of his resignation from the Preventers.  It was self-evident why he had left: the opportunity to serve the colonies trumped the monotony of law enforcement.  Returning to the topic would only gain me a bitter taste in my mouth.

The session-ending chime finally sounded, interrupting the classic example of circular logic that was being presented by the Iron Ore Workers’ Association chairman before I was tempted to grab the nearest ballpoint pen and puncture my own eardrums.  Self-inflicted, irreparable deafness: perhaps that was the secret to Yuy’s successful endurance of the drivel being spouted?  It certainly explained a lot with regards to his working relationship with Winner.

I moved forward as the doors opened, placing myself at the foreign minister’s side.  As she hadn’t deigned to follow her ill-tempered admirer’s advice today, I expected that now – in the moment of chaos when the politicos descended upon the coffee service in the hall beyond and the press corps swarmed – would be all the opportunity that the perpetrator required to express his displeasure.

“As flattering as your attention is, Agent Chang,” Foreign Minister Darlian said in a quiet aside, “I’m beginning to wonder what you’re going to do when I have to use the restroom.”

“Agent Schbeiker will accompany you.”

“Of course,” she replied, compressing her lips in an attempt to conceal a burgeoning smile.

“Clearly, I am serving my intended purpose to its fullest potential if you can find humor in this situation,” I growled, shifting my weight to block her path.  “Wait until the initial crush subsides,” I instructed.

She sighed.  “Agent Chang—”

With a casual motion, I turned as if to scan the premises again and swept several files off of her desktop.  She watched the documents scatter across the floor and under neighboring seats before turning a heated glare in my direction.  “That was uncalled for,” she informed me.

I did not apologize for it.  I’d achieved my goal; by the time she’d finished straightening them up and locking them away in the desk drawer, Schbeiker was approaching us.

“What was that you said about needing the restroom?” I prompted with a nod of greeting to my mission partner.

I tailed them to the ladies’ room and wondered if the foreign minister was partial to strangling paper towels or perhaps shouting over the sound of the hand dryer.  Certainly, she had the right audience if she wanted to express her displeasure with me; the two of them could compare notes.

When she returned to the melee in the hall and dived into one impromptu interview after another, answering any question directed her way, she was the personification of calm professionalism.  Schbeiker, however, was trying very hard not to grin.

I was grateful that the next item on the day’s agenda commenced almost immediately.  The delegates and security personnel were funneled toward one of the ESUN’s staterooms which had been furnished with preschooler-sized tables and chairs.  Thank the ancestors that _I_ did not have to balance myself on one of those tiny, wooden buttock-buckets.

The children were already present and stared, wide-eyed, at the group of be-suited adults that descended upon them.  The foreign minister shook hands and smiled with the two boys and one girl seated at the center-most table, introducing herself and asking their names.  The other delegates followed her example.  The press recorded it like they were documenting a state address.

“Good morning, everyone!” the foreign minister said, bringing the room to attention.  Well, the majority of it.  There were several teachers hovering nearby and they prodded the few fidgeting children to behave.  “Welcome to the Earth Sphere United Nation Headquarters.”

The children blinked at her.  She smiled warmly and stage whispered, “That’s a very long name, isn’t it?  So, around here, everyone calls it the Peace Building.”

It was a shame that the double meaning was lost on the children.  It was rather an apt name, as far as names go: the name referred to both a structure which embodied the peace effort, and the actual _act_ of peace-building.

“Today, I want you to show us what you think peace looks like.  What color is the Flag of Peace?  Does anyone know?”

A few hands shot up.  She pointed to two at the same time and gave the boy and girl at each end a countdown: “Together, now.  Three… two… one…!”

“White!” they proclaimed almost in concert with a few opportunistic classmates joining in without permission.

“That’s right!” she applauded.  “But white’s kind of a boring color, right?”

Several heads nodded automatically.  Interestingly, only a few of the heads belonged to five-year-olds.

“So, today, let’s choose a new color for the Flag of Peace.  You can choose any color you want.  The grown-up at your table will explain what the pictures on the flag mean and then it’s your job to make them colorful.  Are there any questions?”

A hand went up.

“Yes?” the foreign minister asked, smiling with delight.

“Can we call you Relena?”

There was a beat of silence and then everyone laughed.  “Yes,” she answered.  “You can call me Relena.  Are there any other questions?”

Another hand went up.

“Yes?”

“Can you ride a horse?”

I snorted, amused.  Only a five-year-old would consider that a question of top priority when meeting one of the most influential figures in the known universe.

The foreign minister answered that one and then yet another – “Do you get to eat ice cream for breakfast?” – before she declared that the rest of the questions would have to wait until they’d finished coloring their pictures.

Following the foreign minister’s example, the teachers present began passing out the coloring pages and placed crayons on each table.  I watched as the two boys at the foreign minister’s table immediately began arguing over who would get to use the blue crayon first and I did not envy Miss Darlian for sorting that mess out.  The girl at her table, however, turned over her coloring page and frowned darkly at the image on the other side.  From this vantage point, I could see that it looked different from the other pictures that were being colored, but could not see it clearly enough to determine how so.  The little girl tilted her head to one side and then the other.  Then she looked up, clearly seeking out an adult.  As I was the nearest available, I strode over and knelt down beside her seat.

“My name is Wufei,” I told her.  “What’s yours?”

“Andri,” she replied automatically.

“Can I see your picture?” I asked with a friendly smile.

“It’s not colored yet because someone writed on it.”

“That wasn’t very nice of them,” I agreed.  “I’ll get you a new one.”  I held out my hand for the paper.  She handed it over with a sigh.

I glanced down and felt every muscle in my body tense at the sight of the message that had been angrily slashed across the paper in black ink.  I did not, however, sit there gaping at it until someone endeavored to investigate what the problem was.  Sparing a thought for the integrity of the fingerprints that might be on it, I rolled the paper up with minimal fuss.

“I’ll be back in ten seconds,” I told Andri.  “Can you count them for me?”

She nodded and as soon as she said “One…” I was up and heading for the nearest stack of extra printouts.  On my journey, I unobtrusively passed the rolled up page to Schbeiker, snagged a fresh sheet and delivered it to Andri by the count of eight.  My efforts won me a big, toothy smile.  That, combined with her spunky ponytail and too-big ears, made me grin back and ask, “What color will you choose?”

“Pink,” she replied without hesitation.

“Pink,” I repeated, endeared rather than annoyed.  “Why did you choose pink?”  This I had to hear.

“I like pink.”

Naturally.  “So that makes it a good color?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And peace is also good?” I prompted.

“Yup!”

“So pink is the perfect color for peace,” I summarized.  I plucked the pink crayon from the center of the table and offered it to her.  “Show me when you’re done.”

“OK!”

She bent her head down to begin her task.  I glanced up as I started to step back and caught Foreign Minister Darlian looking at me with a wondering smile on her face.

Just because I was a verifiable curmudgeon with an intolerance for idiocy from adults who ought to know better didn’t mean that I didn’t know anything about children.  Although, I had to admit that it wasn’t a skill that I used very often in my line of work.

I probably would have enjoyed talking to Andri more if the circumstances had been different.  It took a monumental effort to keep myself from scowling as I recalled the message that had been left on her coloring page:

yOU LET HIm ToUCH YOU

HE WILL NEVER TOuCH aNYTHiNG AGAIn, MY reLeNA

Damnation.  The wretch had struck again.  I didn’t have to glance in Schbeiker’s direction to know that she’d excused herself from the room to place a call to the pair of individuals who were busy being invisible within the walls of this very building.

As soon as lunch was served and Schbeiker was installed at the foreign minister’s side, I intended to utilize a well-timed bathroom break to follow up on their progress _in person._

Thirty-three minutes later, I had my chance.  I took it.

I pulled out my phone as I stalked the ESUN halls in the direction of a supposedly-unused office.  I keyed in the number and, when it connected, said exactly four words: “I am calling beforehand.”

“Copy that.”

No one followed me as I marched down one hall after another until I reached my destination.  The door swung open under my touch and I shut it swiftly and silently behind me.

“Tell me you have a fix on him,” I demanded of Maxwell.  He was typing away, hunched over one of several keyboards and peering from one monitor to another in the arrangement crowding the desktop.

“Little busy here, Wu.”

I was not in the mood to wait.  “I’ll have your other half fill me in.”  I turned toward the door behind him which led to an inner office and attached bathroom.

Maxwell objected, “He’s just gone under.  Gimme ten seconds and I’ll be right with you, man.”

I shook my head in irritation.  I did not need Maxwell’s assistance in waking Barton.  The moment I opened the door, he’d undoubtedly come to.

I reached for the doorknob.  I heard Maxwell mutter, “Oh, shit!”  The door swung open.  I opened my mouth to call his name and—

A pair of strong hands yanked me into the room and slammed me up against the nearest wall.  I blinked in the darkness even as the cold, biting edge of a knife kissed my throat.

“Armstrong!” I hissed.  I remained motionless, teeth gritted, and listened for the sound of Barton’s breaths, for any indication that he was in the process of coming to his senses… but I heard nothing in the gloom, only perfect silence.

There was a clatter from the suite’s reception area and then Maxwell was standing in the doorway.  “Don’t kill Wufei, baby.”

I held my breath as Maxwell reached out and gasped Barton’s knife arm.  “Stand down,” he soothed in a tone that not only had I never heard before, but had never imagined he could produce.

The knife’s edge was pulled away.  The forearm across my chest lowered.  “Wufei,” Barton observed after a beat of weighted silence.

“Armstrong,” I acknowledged numbly.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” he said by way of explanation.

“An argument could be made to the contrary,” I muttered, annoyance kindling along the edges of my residual shock.

In the dim light spilling into the room from the computer monitors, there was a flicker of motion – the edge of the knife gleamed as he tucked it away and reached for the light switch.

“What do you want?” he asked as a lamp clicked on, revealing a rumpled tangle of a blanket spilling onto the floor from a couch.  He stood in a tank top and pair of black cotton trousers.  I was belatedly relieved that he had not been sleeping in the nude.  One could never be sure what sort of appalling habits he might have picked up from Maxwell.

“Time’s wastin’, man,” the latter reminded me, ducking back out into the outer room now that I was apparently _not_ in danger of having my throat sliced open.

“I need an update,” I told Barton.

“We’ve got eyes in every room and corridor of the building,” he informed me.  Considering the grandeur of the estate, it was an incredible claim, but I didn’t doubt its veracity.  Nor did I insult him by asking if he thought the surveillance equipment would be discovered.  It wouldn’t.  After two and a half years of operating silently and invisibly, Barton and Maxwell knew what they were doing.

“An’ I’ve got eyes on your perp,” Maxwell said.  “In a manner of speaking.”

Barton and I stepped over to the impromptu command center Maxwell was manning.  “It’s one of these guys,” he said gesturing to a video clip.  It was currently fast forwarding as there was quite a lot of time to go through.

“Is that the copy room on the first floor?” I asked.

“Yup, next to Guest Services.  As you can see, just about every aide, reporter, and office staff member wandered through there, right past the photocopies of those Peace Flag pictures.  Here’s where Relena’s assistant forgot them in the printer tray until… there.  When she came and picked them up.”

I sighed.  Easily four dozen people had been crammed into that tiny room at some point or other, shoulders bumping and briefcases swinging.  Any one of them could have lifted one of the photocopies, but there had been no opportunity for the message to be scrawled on it.  That was certain.

“And here,” Maxwell continued, pointing to surveillance of the halls, “we see Sylvia taking the copies to that ballroom you guys were in with the kiddies.”

I paid careful attention to the time stamps to make sure I was watching an uninterrupted feed.

“She goes in, sets them down there on the table against the wall, and then half the whole damn planet comes in and walks by—”

I scowled.  He was correct in that.  Delegates, chiefs-of-staff, members of the press, ESUN staff and security…

“Damnation,” I growled.  “Show me who handed them out.”

“Relena did,” Maxwell summarized as he brought up the corresponding video sequence.

Indeed, the foreign minister herself had taken the top three sheets before passing the stack to Miss Noventa for distribution around the room.  She had then laid those three sheets of paper face down upon the table in front of the children.

“So, right.  That’s kinda… damning,” Maxwell said into the contemplative silence.  None of us pointed out the fact that Foreign Minister Darlian might have planted the message herself.  She’d had opportunity and means.  What I couldn’t ascribe was a motive.

“Keep your mind open to all possibilities,” I ordered.  Then, turning to Barton, I said, “Shall I knock first next time?”

“Send JC in first next time.”  With that he tugged gently on his husband’s ragged ponytail before turning on his heel and striding back into the makeshift bedroom.  The door shut behind him almost silently.  Despite that, it somehow seemed louder than if he’d slammed it.

“Cross,” I began, “does he always—?”

“Don’t ask an’ I won’t tell,” he told me.

I gave him a look.  He rolled his eyes.  “Give the guy a break, huh?  He was up all night and this morning getting our equipment set up.  He’s just now getting around to resting.”

“And you?” I asked, concerned that with just the two of them they’d be stretched far too thin to be of any appreciable use to this unofficial investigation.

“I crashed for a couple hours after he got back.  We’re good.  Just, y’know, try not to stop by too often or people are gonna start thinkin’ you’ve got a girlfriend in here.”

I did not dignify that with a response.  Instead, I issued an ultimatum of my own.  “If you haven’t done so already, you will need to relocate your vehicle—”

“Dude.  Relax.  We didn’t park the car on ESUN property.  Hell, we didn’t even check in with the guards.”

This should not have been news to me and it aggravated me that it was.  If I hadn’t been so focused on running an undetectable investigation, I probably would have had time to double check the visitor logs and learned that for myself.  “You—!  How did you—?”

“Isn’t that kinda the reason why you thought we’d come in handy?”

I answered his quirked eyebrow with a sigh.  “I suppose so.”  I pivoted on my heel and headed for the door.

“We’re gonna catch this guy.”

“And if it’s not _a guy?”_ I checked.

“All the more fun,” Maxwell replied with a disturbingly calculating grin.  “Just keep the bait fresh and reel out the line.”

“A fishing metaphor?” I queried in a disbelieving tone.

Maxwell cackled.  “It turns out there’s a lot you didn’t know about me, huh?”

But I had my suspicions, and I supposed that was good enough.

I rejoined the outdoor picnic lunch that had been provided for the benefit of the children.  I was within a few paces of the foreign minister’s group when Schbeiker noticed my approach.  She leaned toward Andri and whispered, “There he is!” and then pointed at me.  Andri’s entire face lit up with a perfect smile as she spied me.

“Wufei!” she enthused, scrambling off of the meticulously arranged blanket and grabbing for her finished work of art.  “I finished the flag.  See!?”

I leaned down and obligingly looked.  “It is the pinkest flag I’ve ever seen,” I complimented with a smile.  “Like a dream.”

She pulled the picture away from me and held it at arm’s length to study it herself.  “I like it,” she announced.

For all that it looked like a bundle of cotton candy, it was a nice enough depiction of a flag.  I sighed as she sat back down.  Yes, if only peace were half as simple as that tooth-rotting treat; if only it weren’t twice as fragile.  The foreign minister may have been wise to insist on keeping the existence of the individual who was, perhaps, watching her even now a secret.  Seven years was not enough time to heal the wounds from decades of mistrust and months of strife completely. In fact, it was little more than a single stitch in a gaping wound.

In that light, it was difficult to think of a reason for why the foreign minister might be threatening herself, but just because I could not discern a motive did not mean that one did not exist.  Maxwell had the right of it: with enough rope, the culprit would eventually hang him-or-herself.  All we could do now was be vigilant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking forward to hearing how you liked this chapter. Help me battle the funk of RL life with a little blatant flattery, eh? (^_~)


	5. A Gift from an Admirer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one would bear watching.

“Where did a grump like you learn how to talk to kids?”

I looked up from my cup of tea and glared.  Now that the PC Picnic was over and the children had been herded back onto their school bus, I was free to scowl as darkly as I liked.  The media were preparing to reposition their cameras in the auditorium as the delegates fell upon the afternoon buffet coffee service like their respective election campaigns were run on pure caffeine.  Which, perhaps, they were.

“C’mon, Chang,” Schbeiker wheedled obnoxiously.  “You.  Munchkins.  How’d that happen?”

I continued glaring over the rim of my overly ornamental cup, tracking the foreign minister’s movements through the dining hall as she congratulated useless politician after useless politician on helping a trio of five-year-olds color in their pictures.  The truly sad part of the farce was that they all preened as if they’d just ratified a peace treaty singlehandedly.  Pathetic.

Schbeiker persisted.  Leaning an elbow on the table at which we were seated, she smirked.  “Moonlighting for the kiddie program at the zoo?”

My home colony hadn’t had a zoo, but an achingly familiar field of wildflowers flashed across my mind from the depths of my memories.  I turned my attention away from it and the pair of figures forever seated on the knoll.  Instead, I recalled the park at its border, remembering it as clearly as if I’d only been there yesterday practicing Tai Chi in the morning with Master Long and then returning much later after the day’s lessons had been concluded.

_“Watch out for your cousins, Wufei.  You are the eldest.  It’s your responsibility.”_

How many afternoons had I sat upon a bench under one of the few trees and studied while keeping an eye on my younger cousins?  How many bruised knees and scraped elbows had I inspected?  How many arguments had I broken up and friendships renegotiated?

Not that any of it mattered now.

I turned away from Schbeiker and watched the foreign minister as she progressed around the room.  This assignment was not so different from the responsibilities I’d been given as a child.  It infuriated me that, as a grown man, I was condemned to the same juvenile duties.

“Chang?”

Schbeiker’s soft tone, in conjunction with the hand she placed on my arm, drew me back to myself with a jerk.  I slammed my teacup down onto its saucer and gifted her with a fierce scowl.

Sensing an apology in the air, I felt my lips begin to curl into a sneer.

Then, suddenly, Schbeiker’s sympathetic look dissolved and her gaze shifted, focusing on something over my shoulder.  A nauseatingly smitten grin burst across her features.  “Manning!” she called, waving with shameful exuberance.  Her other hand – the one closest to me – discreetly pulled something from her pocket and then slid further under the table.

I didn’t bother to either glance behind me or hold back my scowl.  It was enough that the past had been once again exiled to the back of my mind.  I focused on my dislike for the plastic person who answered Schbeiker’s summons.

“Ah!  Agent Schbeiker.  Agent Chang,” Wilhelm greeted smarmily.  As he strode over to our table, I calculated the required trajectory and velocity for a sugar cube to lodge itself precisely between his eyes.

“I thought I told you to call me Hilde,” Schbeiker teased, flashing a dimple.

Wilhelm came within visual range.  “Aren’t you, ah, on the job, as they say?”

She nodded toward the magnificent example of clockwork which took up most of the entire east wall.  “I have ten whole minutes left of my lunch break.”

“Agent Chang as well?”  He didn’t wait for me to refuse to respond.  Leaning close to Schbeiker, he asked in a conspiratorial tone, “Who’s going to keep you out of trouble then?”

She giggled, pushing out the seat beside hers in invitation.

I gave the idea of smacking her serious consideration.  Regardless, I didn’t have to sit here and witness this pubescent flirtation.  I moved to push my chair back, but encountered surprising resistance: Schbeiker had hooked her foot around the chair leg nearest to her, holding me in place.

Hm.

I quickly turned the aborted attempt at escape into an entirely different motion.  I reached for my cell phone and pretended to check my text messages.

As I scrolled through random screen after random screen, I tracked the foreign minister unobtrusively.

Wilhelm remarked with a gesture to the politicos, “Just imagine how proud of themselves they’d be if the pictures had been matted and framed and hung in a museum!”

Schbeiker roared with laughter.  “You are _so_ funny!”

“Agent Chang doesn’t seem to think so.”

That was because I’d encountered graphite pencils with sharper wit.

“Oh, he’s checking the sports news.  A nuclear blast couldn’t get his attention,” I heard Schbeiker confide to her boy toy.

I continued to fiddle with my phone, wondering just what she was up to.

And then she spelled it out, in a manner of speaking.  She sent me a text.

_//Watch him.//_

“Oh, hey, about that autograph…” Schbeiker began, cutting across yet another inane remark.  I noticed this coincided with the foreign minister’s circular path leading her back toward Winner and Yuy.

“Of course!” he exclaimed, his hands searching for a pen amongst his perfectly pressed pockets.

“I have one—oh fudge!”

The pen Schbeiker had pulled from her clipboard flipped end over end, tumbling over her hand and onto the floor behind her chair.

“Uh, whoops.  Just a moment,” she mumbled, flushing with embarrassment.

A gentleman would have insisted she stay put while he collected the dropped item on her behalf.  An opportunistic wretch would have simply let her fetch the thing herself, satisfying his baser instincts with an obvious ogle and accompanying lecherous thought.

Wilhelm did neither of these things.  As soon as Schbeiker’s attention was elsewhere, his gaze slid in Foreign Minister Darlian’s direction.  His eyes flashed with a hunger that was nearly primal as she paused briefly to speak with Winner and Yuy again, and then they narrowed with fury as the foreign minister placed her hand on Winner’s shoulder and laughed at some grudgingly participative comment from Yuy.

Ah.  This one would bear watching.

“Got it!” Schbeiker announced, plopping gracelessly back into her seat.

“Lipstick,” I proclaimed.

Wilhelm’s expression shuttered and his eyes shifted away as Schbeiker turned her attention toward me.  “Huh?”

I glanced up scowling.  “You got lipstick on my cell phone,” I complained, wiping at it with my napkin.

“Oh, uh, sorry.”  She didn’t sound remotely apologetic.

“Next time you can either remember to charge yours or find a pay phone,” I growled.

“Grouch,” she muttered under her breath and then turned back to Wilhelm with a bright, vacant grin.  “Can I have that autograph made out to Hilde-bell?  It’s a nickname from when I was a kid…”

Five minutes later, a chime sounded, warning everyone present to don their battle armor for the afternoon negotiations.  Wilhelm retreated from the room in search of the rock he’d crawled out from under.  Interestingly, the foreign minister was gazing at Schbeiker and myself intently instead of smiling and nodding at whatever the Zinc Miners Union representative was saying.

“What made you suspect him?” I murmured, affecting as disgruntled a posture as I could believably manage.

“Relena always gets these embarrassingly extravagant bouquets from him after every interview.  Lately, there have been some, er, inappropriate gifts, too,” she answered with a mocking smile.  I wasn’t fooled by the display.  She was playing the amused but tolerant senior agent and I was the male chauvinist who resented her authority.  All was status quo.

“When were you planning on telling me this?” I inquired.

“When you suspected him, too.”  She gave me a sidelong look.  “I value your judgment, Chang.  If you saw what I saw…”  She shrugged.  “One of us had to be objective.”

I glowered.  “I am capable of forming my own opinion.”

“Yes, but I didn’t want you to work _too_ hard at proving me wrong.”  She grinned winningly.

And she had won the final say on that point.  If I’d known about her suspicions beforehand I would have, at the very least, demanded full disclosure before participating in her little charade.  At worst, I would have found myself defending the cretin.  The very thought nearly made me shudder with revulsion.

Instead of belabor the obvious, I switched tack: “Why was he invited to attend at all?”

She snorted.  “Because I didn’t have the final say on the guest list.”

“I take it the foreign minister doesn’t agree with your assessment?”

She sighed out through her nose.  “Relena thinks he’s harmless.”

This was the second time in as many minutes that she’d used Foreign Minister Darlian’s given name.  “That is our concern.  Not hers.”

Schbeiker’s lips twitched upward at the corners into a genuine smirk.  “Have you ever tried telling _her_ that?”

From her tone, I could infer that _she_ had.  More than once.  Curiosity – the intellectual variety, of course – made me ask, “Why do you continue requesting assignments at official ESUN functions?”  Surely, she wouldn’t have objected to other agents taking over from time to time.  For the sake of her sanity alone.

Schbeiker grinned.  “Why do you think?”

“You,” I assessed, “are a masochist.”

She chuckled.  It was a low, soft sound.  Not at all like those twittering giggles she’d used around Wilhelm.  “Bingo,” she confirmed.

I had more I wanted to say, but the foreign minister was closing in on our position.  How interesting that she chose this precise moment to take the offensive.

“What was all that about, Agent Schbeiker?” Foreign Minister Darlian inquired.  Her tone was light, but her eyes were hard.

“What was what about?” Schbeiker responded innocently.

 _“You_ were getting an autograph from Manning Wilhelm?” our intrepid politician prompted incredulously.

Schbeiker smiled.  The last time I’d seen that particular toothy grin, a shark had been wearing it at the local aquarium.  “I realized you were right about him; he _is_ charming.”

Taking a calculated risk, I stirred the pot by interjecting drolly, “Foreign Minister Darlian, Agent Schbeiker was off-duty.  If she wanted to swap phone numbers with the man, there was no professional impediment to prevent her from doing so.”

 _That_ garnered an interesting reaction.

“Did you?” the foreign minister pressed tartly.

“Did I what?”  Schbeiker was being purposefully obtuse.

“Give him your number?”

“Absolutely!” Schbeiker replied, untroubled by the foreign minister’s shocked but nearly inaudible hiss.  “And if he happens to ask me out for coffee…”  She ended that thought with an expressive shrug.

Foreign Minister Darlian did not appreciate her nonchalance.  I was morbidly curious as to what she was going to say in reply.  I was also fairly amused by the fact that they seemed to feel it necessary to have this discussion in my presence.  Did they think I would step in if they actually quarreled?  My days spent monitoring the playground were far behind me.

Just when the foreign minister’s eyes flashed with confrontation and ultimatum, the warning bells sounded again, ringing like those just before the next round of a boxing match.  The parallel amused me greatly.

The foreign minister gritted her teeth.  Mindful of the fact that the negotiations were about to start, she murmured, “We’ll discuss this later.”

“Looking forward to it, ma’am,” Schbeiker replied with a dazzling smile.

I contemplated the byplay I’d just witnessed as the foreign minister doggedly attached herself to my arm and steered me out into the hall and down toward the auditorium.  Just inside the entrance, Schbeiker took the stairs up to the sound booth.  I saw Foreign Minister Darlian to her seat and then moved to the fringes of the room to take up my post.

“You know, Chang,” I heard Schbeiker volunteer via earwick, “from all the way up here, I’m seeing a _lot_ of grey hairs.  You need to relax before you give yourself a stroke.”

I glanced up at the observation deck where the news crews were getting their soundbytes of the opening remarks and scowled.

“Your face’ll get stuck like that,” she warned me.

Through gritted teeth, I growled, “Give me one good reason to listen to you.”

The person stationed beside me stiffened.

“I’m never wrong,” she informed me.

I decided to conserve my energy.  Patience was a virtue.  She’d stumble eventually and then I’d have the unmitigated pleasure of pointing out her own fallibility to her.

The sound of a man clearing his throat jarred me.  The timbre was as familiar as the tick-tock of the analog clock in my office.  I knew this sound all the way down to my bones.  Glancing over, I met Yuy’s blue stare. 

I hadn’t even registered the fact that I was standing next to him.  I certainly hadn’t steered myself toward him intentionally.  Subconsciously, I apparently still saw him as my partner, still trusted him to watch my back, still counted on him to cover my blind spots.  Ancestors, save me before my own moronic complicity got someone killed.

I sighed heavily.

“So you are upset with me,” he concluded in a flat, factual tone.  “I’d thought so.”

I blinked.  “What,” I demanded, “are you nattering about?”

It belatedly occurred to me that Yuy had misinterpreted my remark to Schbeiker as an accusation aimed at him.  I reached up to give my earwick a tap and demonstrate to whom I’d been snarling, but he wasn’t watching me.

Scanning the assembly, he stated, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve done no such thing.”

Yuy stared at a point in the distance, the muscles along his jaw bunching.  I knew this look.  I recognized it as the one which always preceded the evidence upon which he would rest his case.  He said, “You’ve done _nothing.”_

I stiffened.  I knew what he meant: I hadn’t emailed; I hadn’t called.  Aside from the congratulations I’d offered at the end of a celebratory evening at the pub before their shuttle liftoff the next morning, I hadn’t made any effort at communication at all.  “I’ve been busy.”

“Yes.  Bickering with Nichol, cleaning up after Carlson, reining in Noin’s maternal instincts, and recuperating in the hospital following one goat-fucked assignment after another.  Very busy.”

The last incident hadn’t been an assignment at all, but I let the generalization pass.  “I’d like to see you try it.”

“I bet you would.”

I sent my most withering glare out over the assembly as if casting a net for victims to torment.

“You can keep blaming me if that’s easier,” Yuy rumbled, the barest note of petulance in his tone.

“Who else would I blame?” I gritted out, riding the cresting tide of my temper.

“Quatre.”

I was instantly incensed.  “I’m supposed to blame Winner because _you_ left?”

Yuy blinked.  I’d surprised him.  Woodenly, he objected, “Because he asked me to.”

My rage tripped and stumbled out of the steamy realm of fury and into an artic wasteland.  I froze, my anger hardening and icing over until its jagged edges threatened to poke through my skin.  “He asked you?”  I spat the words out like they were bits of frozen bile.

Yuy gave me a piercing look.  “I thought that’s why you…  Ah.  You didn’t know,” he concluded.  Then, with an aggravated grunt, chided me, “You should have.”

I turned away from him.  This conversation was over.

I endured the remainder of the afternoon in silence, focusing on the foreign minister and her presentation of a working exchange system meant to provide a “practical” value for the resources being represented at the summit.  The figures were meant to reflect more than just the monetary value of the minerals and supplies.  They incorporated the human costs in terms of wages and risks taken, transport between the Earth and colonies, and a myriad of other factors.  It made perfect sense to me.  So, naturally, everyone was bickering over it.

When the chime announcing dinner sounded, I radioed Schbeiker and told her to come collect the foreign minister.  I had an errand that needed to be done.

“Fill me in when you can,” she said.  I waited by the door until I saw her reach Foreign Minister Darlian’s side and then I pivoted sharply and lost myself in the milling crowd.  I’d seen Winner frowning thoughtfully at me as he’d moved in Yuy’s direction.  That damned Space Heart of his.  Of bloody course.

Well, he could sort it out with Yuy.  _They_ were partners, after all.

I turned down an increasingly familiar corridor on the second floor of the east wing and retrieved my cell phone from my pocket.  I dialed.

“All clear,” Barton told me.

I entered the office suite without knocking first.

The door behind the bank of monitors was closed and Barton was the only person in view.  “Maxwell…?” I checked.

Barton nodded toward the connecting door without taking his gaze off of the monitors or his fingers off the keyboard.  “Asleep.”

I watched him for a moment until amusement began to nudge my ill temper aside.  “You still remember how to do this,” I observed.

“You’re assuming I ever tried to forget.”

I suppose I was.

“Have a seat,” he invited.

As there was only one other chair in the room, that’s where I sat.  The vantage point gave me a partial view of the monitors as they cycled through a myriad of camera feeds.

“Manning Wilhelm,” I said after a moment of silence.

“He was in the copy room and he walked by the table before Relena passed out the pictures this morning,” he confirmed.

“Did you tell Schbeiker?” I asked rather than turn on the earwick mic.

“Of course.”

“And you did not think to tell me?”

Barton sent a brief glare in my direction.  “She promised to pass it on when you weren’t on the verge of going nuclear.”

“Is that a direct quote?”

Barton grunted.  He called up the camera that was currently focused on Wilhelm, perhaps in an effort to pacify me.  I could see that useless creature was behaving himself, presumably enjoying his steak at the press table in the grand dining room.  Again and again, his gaze darted in the foreign minister’s direction.  She was not seated near Winner, thank the ancestors, and Schbeiker was on the alert.

I stared at the screen, silence filtering through the air like dust motes.  I’d handled the business I’d come here to discuss, but I made no move to leave.

“If you talk, I’ll listen,” Barton offered quietly.

I snorted.  “More than enough was said in the auditorium.”

He tilted his head to the side, both conceding the point and confirming my suspicion that he’d been reading our lips on one of the monitors.

“You have an impressive intruder response,” I said, turning his own offer against him.

Barton didn’t get defensive.  I shouldn’t have been surprised.  He’s always had impeccable balance.

I pressed, “Is that a new development?”

“No.”

“Cross doesn’t mind?”

“What do you think he’d do about it even if he did?”

That was food for thought.  “Relieve you of your knives.”

“I don’t need a knife to kill someone.”

“And you _would_.  You would kill, wouldn’t you?” I interrogated.

“Would I kill someone who had gone through my husband to get to me?”  Barton sent me a glare that spoke of barely-restrained fury the likes of which would rival the rolling thunder of Beam Cannons, balls of plasma fire, and billowing pitch-black clouds of smoke.  In a word: Heavyarms.  He rumbled, “In less than a heartbeat.”

So it had been intentional.  Barton hadn’t lost control earlier when I’d walked in on his nap.  He’d allowed his instincts to take over.  He’d calculated the odds and accepted the likelihood that the intruder had been an enemy.  After all, only four people knew he and Maxwell were here in this very room: Maxwell, Barton, Schbeiker, and myself.  Four in an estate which currently hosted over a hundred at any given hour of the day.

But there was more to Barton’s response than simple mathematics.  Otherwise, he would have released me the moment he’d recognized me.  He had not.

“By necessity, my first priority is the elimination of threats,” he explained quietly, answering my silent contemplation. 

If not for the pointed remark about necessity, he could have been repeating one of Yuy’s many pragmatic mantras verbatim.  I knew it was the mercenary in him that made him sound so much like J’s former soldier at times.  But it was his respect for Maxwell which allowed him to let the other man take point at all, and it was his affection for him which made Barton wish things could be different; he wished he didn’t have to put his spouse second in an urgent situation.  But, to do otherwise would be an insult to Maxwell and might even endanger his safety.

He finished unhappily, “My second priority is confirming JC’s status.”

And if not for Maxwell stepping between us and speaking, Barton might have killed me.  If I had somehow harmed his husband, he most definitely would have.

I couldn’t find it in me to feel betrayed by his lack of blind faith in our friendship.  We’d fought in the same war.  On opposing sides, even.  All five of us knew how quickly the tide could change, how easy it was for our motivations and momentum to divide us.  It was a miracle that Barton and Maxwell had managed to hold onto each other these past years.

I offered, “You’re fortunate you can trust him.”

The words rang out, hollow and jarring.  Mocking me.  Trowa said nothing as I tensed.  I did not want to think about trust, about partnerships or partners.

The door behind us opened on a whisper of sound.  “Y’know, Wu,” Maxwell said on a yawn, “Gerald doesn’t always say exactly what he means.  Stuff gets lost in translation when you go from mission-speak to actual human communication.”

I scowled.  So, Maxwell knew as well.  I turned and pinned him with my gaze.  “Was today the first you’d heard of it?” I demanded, refusing to define the object of my anger.

“The first I’d heard either of them confirm it,” he replied but, true and honest friend that he was, he admitted, “I’d wondered, though.  Gerald wouldn’t abandon the last three years for just any job offer.  Not even one in space.”

Yuy had scolded me in the auditorium; he’d told me I should have known and, yes, perhaps I should have.  Maxwell was correct; I should have deduced that the only way Yuy would leave the Preventers was if he’d been made an offer he couldn’t refuse.  Winner asking him for a favor would certainly qualify.  I was a fool if I honestly thought Yuy would suddenly leave the Preventers, even if his new position was meant to improve the life of the colonists he’d fought for and allowed him to work alongside a trusted ally.  I should have known he wouldn’t have thrown away three years of friendship and solidarity for anything less than a blood debt.

I’d never heard Yuy acknowledge it as such, but when Winner had taken point in the final battle, allowing Yuy to blast off after Merquise, Winner had paid for his generosity in blood.  In fact, I was fairly certain he still had the scar to show for it.  What made it worse was the fact that he’d been critically injured with a weapon Yuy had known well.  Yes, if it had been Yuy clashing swords with that Catalonia female, the outcome of the fight would have been very different.  For one thing, Winner would not have had to return to battle exhausted and bleeding as he’d led us to victory.  If that wasn’t a blood debt, then I didn’t know what was.

But this was not the time or the place to consider such things.  And even if it were, what had transpired between Yuy and Winner during the war was none of my business.  Or, rather, it _shouldn’t_ have been.

“I have to get back to work,” I announced, standing.

Neither Maxwell nor Barton tried to stop me from leaving.

“We’ll call when we have something,” Barton promised as I relinquished the chair to Maxwell.

“But keep the end-game in mind, yeah?” Maxwell checked.  “Even if we catch him in the act on camera, if you can’t get any forensic evidence…”  He shrugged.

I nodded.  “I’ll speak with Schbeiker.”  It was long past time we started handling this situation instead of letting it handle us.  Were we Preventer Agents or children playing tag in the backyard on a Saturday afternoon?  It was a miracle that the director hadn’t reeled us in for a selection of threats and a well-worded ultimatum.

Glancing once more at the screens, I sneered at the florists’ van idling at the front gate.  My threat of an audit seemed to have done wonders.  No less than four security officers were currently interrogating the driver and inspecting the delivery itself.  I glimpsed the blonde head of Miss Noventa as she interceded to direct the numerous arrangements of cut flowers to their intended destinations.  I had no doubt that _that_ would become my job if I couldn’t diffuse this situation concerning the foreign minister’s safety.

Perhaps it was time to force our resident crackpot to, as they say, put his money where his mouth is.

A few steps away from Barton and Maxwell’s workstation, I turned on my earwick mic and said to my partner, “Change of plans, Schbeiker.”

“Finally seeing things my way, are we?”

I would not dignify her juvenile taunt with a response.  “We draw him out.”

There was a long pause.  “I see.”  I could tell that she did, indeed.  “Heh.  This outta be good.”

I smirked.  “Oh, I will be.”

Behind me, Maxwell chuckled.  “We’ve got eyes on your boy,” he said and then he winked.  “Rock out, man.”

“Don’t keep your audience in suspense,” Barton added.

I shook my head at their antics as I let myself out of the room.  I couldn’t help but be amused despite the gravity of the situation.  I wondered, briefly, if Schbeiker was letting the foreign minister know what I was about to do.  Considering the spat they’d had a few hours earlier over our main suspect, I wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to let it be a surprise.

Entering the dining room, I headed for Foreign Minister Darlian’s table and placed my hand on her shoulder as I leaned down to murmur in her opposite ear.  Interestingly, after her initial startle, she inched subtly in my direction.

I informed her, “After the reception this evening, do not leave the room without either Schbeiker or myself.”  My breath stirred several strands of her honey-brown hair.  She may have even fought a shiver.

Relena Darlian gave me a smile that was rather coy.  “Have a seat, Agent Chang.”

I slid into the chair beside hers and held still while a server descended and tended to my place setting.  The rest of the room’s occupants were midway through their dinner, but as I had no interest in dessert, I didn’t bother to hurry through my soup, salad, and main course.  I lamented the lack of time I had for tea, but gallantly stood and attended to the foreign minister’s chair as soon as she set her napkin down on the table with a satisfied sigh.

Schbeiker brought up the rear, speaking softly on her cell phone.  I had no doubt that she was getting a progress report from Maxwell on how Wilhelm was handling my close interaction with the object of his obsession.  Pretending I couldn’t see him out of the corner of my eye, I placed a hand on Miss Darlian’s waist before she could take my arm.  And then I rubbed my thumb against the weave of her dress.

Unlike the night before, I didn’t shadow the foreign minister but rather I escorted her from one conversation to the next.  I took care to keep myself just within her personal space like I’d seen Maxwell do to Barton over the years.  I also angled my head so that she could speak into my ear whenever she addressed me, which was something I’d observed from Barton time and time again.  I additionally quirked my lips into a slight smile no matter the utterance I heard, hinting at intimacy.

“You’re quite charming when you put your mind to it, Wufei,” the foreign minister told me and I took the opportunity to chuckle quietly.  She wasn’t the only one to take note of my behavior; we were drawing the attention of politicians and press alike.  A euphemism I’d heard earlier in the day came back to me: Wilhelm was going to _go nuclear._

“Like most things, all it takes is the right motivation,” I murmured in response.

“Agent Chang!”

I turned and scowled at Winner’s bright smile.  Yuy was a step behind him, looking on in furious silence.  Ah.  Of course.  He knew what I was doing.  He was thinking of the message that had been left on Foreign Minister Darlian’s bedroom door, the one warning her to stay away from that “bastard Gundam pilot.”  He knew I was toying with the author of that message, trying to draw the man out.  Once, Yuy would have been my backup.  Perhaps I wasn’t the only one having difficulty letting go of old habits.

Our gazes met and I acknowledged his frustration with a haughty lift of my brows.  Despite what he’d told me at the afternoon session, it had still been up to him to either accept or decline Winner’s offer.  He now had no place in this mission and he hated it.

Hypocrite.

“Mister Winner,” I replied pleasantly.

“I was wondering if I could have a word.”

“Of course.  I believe you have my contact information.  Feel free to make an appointment.  Now, if you’ll excuse me.”  I didn’t wait for him to respond.

As I steered my charge toward the presentation hall, she muttered through a polished smile, “I’m beginning to wonder if I imagined your friendship.”

So was I.

Flashbulbs burst in rapid succession as the main doors to the forum chamber opened for our approach.  I scowled through them.  Yuy and Winner fell into step behind us and Yuy rumbled something at the foreign minister, who laughed, turned toward him, and would have responded if not for—

_Crash!_

I tensed, pulling Relena Darlian behind me as Manning Wilhelm struggled to free himself from several sound cables curled up on the floor.  A bare pedestal stood within arm’s length and a broken vase of pink and white roses lay at its base.  Water dripped and puddled on the stone floor.  Whatever Wilhelm had been attempting to do was unclear, but he’d been thwarted.  All eyes were on his flushed face as he finally untangled his feet and stood up straight.  A whisper rushed through the crowd followed by a few chuckles. 

I retrieved the foreign minister’s hands from where she was tightly gripping my arm and dismissed the man from my notice, confident that Barton and Maxwell would be recording his movements carefully.  I was looking forward to watching the man make a spectacle of himself over and over again via the security monitors.

“What are you smiling about?” Schbeiker demanded from the observation level of the auditorium.

Speaking through my teeth as I guided Foreign Minister Darlian through the crowd, I responded circumspectly, “I’m madly in love, can’t you tell?”

“Huh.  I’d say that’s your constipation face.”

“I do not have a constipation face,” I muttered back.

“Show us your orgasm face, Chang,” she scandalously proposed.  “You’ve got one of those, right?”

There was no dignified retort to that.

Schbeiker blithely coached, “That’ll help you pull off the madly in love theme.  Unless it’s the same as your constipation face, in which case we’re gonna have to work on your acting skills _a lot.”_

“I will report you for harassment,” I growled.

“No, you won’t.”

She was correct, damn it all.  If I reported her, our partnership would be split up pending an investigation.  Director Une had been very clear that this was my last chance to retain a position in the field.  I had no doubt that she would not be pleased to learn that my fifth partner had lasted a mere thirty hours.

“I won’t,” I agreed and I could almost hear Schbeiker’s shock.  We both knew I was never this agreeable when capitulating.  “It’ll be easier to simply dispose of your remains.”

“Hah hah.  You’re so funny.”

“Especially when I am completely serious.”

The foreign minister circled the room, clutching my arm as she spoke enthusiastically with as many people as possible.  In fact, there seemed to be some sort of ongoing competition – everyone seemed to be arduously ignoring the provided seats as if the first person to give in and sit down would be excluded from the conference’s official photo op.  Truly, a fate worse than death.

It took the sound of the chime to force the overzealous politicians to find a chair and occupy it.  I sat beside Foreign Minister Darlian as if I were little more than a well-heeled pet.  The role grated but there was every indication that it would be worth it _when_ – not _if_ – Wilhelm underestimated me.

The speeches were banal and predictable.  I spent the following hour scanning the crowd as I periodically leaned in to whisper in the foreign minister’s ear from time to time.

“What an unfortunate necktie,” I observed at one point, followed by – “Do you think he knows what ‘munificent’ actually means?”

Foreign Minister Darlian alternately bit her lip and covered her mouth with a hand to contain her laughter.  If a lunatic weren’t in our midst, I might have actually enjoyed myself.  But—

“Wilhelm’s on the move,” Schbeiker informed me via earwick and I had to force myself to stay in my seat.  “Stay with the foreign minister.”

I nodded once, as if I actually agreed with the current speaker’s redundant argument.  I listened intently as Schbeiker narrated her progress:

“Target is proceeding to the staff entrance…  He’s gone into the locker rooms…  I’m heading for the rear exit now.  Damn, it looks like he’s changed clothes.  Stand by.”

I waited as she made contact with Barton and Maxwell on her cell phone.

“Confirmed,” she reported.  “Target is now in ESUN staff clothing, heading for the third floor, north wing.”

I listened as Schbeiker trailed his progress, closing in, but then—

“Hey, you!  Stop right there!  Preventers!  Stop!  Ouch!”

I stiffened.

“Damn it!” she hissed.  “He got past me.”

I ground my teeth together, damning the fact that it was only Schbeiker and myself who had been officially assigned to this case and one of us was effectively chained to the foreign minister’s side at all times.

“He’s gone.  Changed back into his clothes,” Schbeiker reported seven excruciatingly long minutes later.  “Calling forensics to collect the clothing he borrowed.”

I blew out a furious breath.  Circumstantial evidence was better than nothing, but only slightly.

The final speech concluded forty minutes later and I wasted no time in urging Relena Darlian to work her way toward the doors.  “What’s happened?” she demanded quietly, tilting her head shyly as if she were requesting a moment to use the ladies’ room.

“Wilhelm,” I informed her before turning up my earwick mic.  “Schbeiker, status?”

“No injuries.  I’m outside the foreign minister’s apartment.  He was in here and left another message, apparently.”

“We’re on our way.”  Turning to the foreign minister, I said, “Make your excuses.  I’m taking you back to your rooms to rest.”

She nodded, complying with surprising swiftness.  Her grip on my arm tightened and I found myself being pulled along with her.  I didn’t tell her she wouldn’t be resting in her rooms tonight.  The scene had been completely processed since the night before, a fact of which she was well aware, but now there was a second incident that required documenting.

Foreign Minister Darlian smiled at the representatives and staff, the very picture of ease, except for the fingernails digging into the sleeve of my suit jacket.

Our pace was efficient – even quick – as we took the stairs up to the third floor.  North wing.  End of the corridor.  Schbeiker was pacing in the hall.

“What happened?” the foreign minister repeated, releasing me and rushing forward the last half dozen steps toward Schbeiker.  “Are you hurt?”

Schbeiker shook her head and, as she did, I caught a glimpse of a developing bruise on her forehead.  It would even match the abrasion on mine.  “I’m fine.  He closed and locked a door on me during the pursuit.  I had to double-back.”

I snarled, “Which wouldn’t have happened if we’d been able to handle the situation with a full team at our disposal.”

Foreign Minister Darlian had the grace to look ashamed of herself.  “I’m so very sorry.”

I ignored her.  “Did you get a clear view of him?” I asked of Schbeiker.  In other words, could we extend Preventers’ hospitality to the scum in reply to a convenient charge like “assault on an officer of the law?”

She grumped, “Yes, but we’ve nothing from the chase to hold him on.”

How true.  Dozens of hands would have touched the very same door that she’d barreled into.  I nodded toward the foreign minister’s apartment.  “Have you been inside yet?”

“No, JC warned me he left something behind this time.  Some kind of device.”

My eyes narrowed.  I dialed Barton’s cell phone.  “Is the area clear?” I asked him.

“Yes.  Relena can wait in the hall.  I’ll call you if that changes.”

“Roger that.”  Snapping my phone shut, I ordered our charge to—“Stay here.”  I waited for her nod of compliance before I drew my weapon and took up a position beside the door, opposite Schbeiker.  She reached for the door knob and began the silent countdown.

_Three… two… one!_

The door banged open and we swung over the threshold, keeping low and close to the wall for cover.  There was no movement in the room.  At first glance, it looked unchanged from the night before.  We swept through the apartment but, as Barton had assured me, no one was lurking within.

“Breakfast nook,” Schbeiker informed me.  “On the table.”

We approached warily and I found myself frowning down at Wilhelm’s third message.  This time, he’d scratched it right onto the white tabletop.  Presumably with the abused-looking letter opener lying on the carpet.

ThEY aRe WAtcHInG YOU, MY RELENa

And beside it lay a small, electronic device.

“That’s not a camera,” Schbeiker observed.

“No, it isn’t,” I concurred.  “It’s a laser sight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't ask for much in the way of feedback. Just a little blatant flattery and unconditional worship. C'mon. You know you wanna. (^_~)


	6. The Devil You Know and the Devil You Don’t

“Yup.  Laser sight,” Maxwell confirmed.

“Inoperable,” Barton amended.

“Squished,” his spouse added.

“One of yours?” I checked.

“This piece of shit?” Maxwell squawked indignantly, which sufficiently answered my question.

“Take me through the entire sequence.  Everything.”  I nodded toward the glowing monitors.  “From the beginning.”

Maxwell frowned in a mockery of thought and began, “Well… in the beginning was the word, and word was with God, and the word _was—”_

The familiar sensation of a vein throbbing in my temple preceded the contemplation of various methods of dispatching long-haired young men with nothing more than my bare hands. 

Barton glanced at me, then promptly leaned halfway out of his seat and kissed Maxwell on the mouth.  Not lightly or briefly.  I had to direct my attention elsewhere as they reenacted the kiss from their wedding ceremony some years ago.  The depth of their need for one another was unsettling.  Schbeiker would probably swoon and call it romantic.  My lips curled into a sneer.

The soft sound of their mouths separating preceded a long exhalation from Maxwell and a look of contrition which I deigned to accept.  “Okay.  Sorry.  We’re on it.  I just—” He poked at the broken device with the tip of a small gauge screwdriver.  “—this is taking things to a whole new level, y’know?”

“That laser sight—” I began, eyeing the screw driver and assuming his intent to use it.

“Will be put back exactly as it was before the forensics dudes show up.  Scout’s honor.”

I bit back the retort that Maxwell was in no way any kind of scout whatsoever as Barton slid back into his chair and began typing.

“From 1900 hours?” he confirmed.

“Yes.  Fine.”  I ignored Maxwell, who – scout or not – could at least be trusted to do what was necessary for the preservation of evidence.  As he began dissecting the laser sight, I focused on the video footage of Wilhelm.  Barton fast-forwarded through dinner but once the foreign minister reached the auditorium and the camera angle changed, he slowed it down to real time. 

I watched myself lean in close to speak with the woman on my arm, creating a very intimate portrait indeed.  I refused to react as Winner and Yuy entered the picture and events unfolded: the distant look I gave both of them and the clear dismissal; Yuy trailing behind the foreign minister like a kicked puppy, mumbling something that nearly caused her to laugh; and finally the kerfuffle with Wilhelm and the vase of cut flowers.

Seeing the object of his obsession surrounded by very friendly former Gundam pilots had evidently been too much for the man to endure.  He’d lunged forward and promptly tripped on what appeared to be a snarl of sound cables.  Arms windmilling, he’d scrambled to catch himself on the nearest freestanding object – a pedestal.  His forearm had swept the vase from its perch and then, in his haste to attain the vertical, he’d slipped on the slick, polished stone floor and landed squarely on his rump.

Comedic entertainment at its finest.

Everyone in the room had watched him hastily flail to his feet to their twitters and chortles.  Face flushed, he’d pivoted smartly toward the nearest exit but then he’d paused, lifted his foot, and frowned at the floor.  As the show was over, no one appeared to notice when he stooped and retrieved something small from the debris of squashed flowers and scattered shards of porcelain underfoot.  With a furtive glance, he slid it into his pocket.

Barton sped up the playback as Wilhelm lurked, sulking against the wall of the press box.  He’d kept a hand in his pocket, fiddling with the souvenir from his blunder, until the speeches were underway and he could no longer withstand the suspense.   He drew it out of his trouser pocket.  On the monitor, it was little more than a speck of lint in the palm of his hand.

Moments later he stiffened and enclosed the object in his fist.  His entire face became a mask of fury.  He seethed in silence through two more speeches before slipping from the room.

Wilhelm navigated the halls with confidence, entered the staff dressing room, and appropriated a uniform and cap, the latter of which he pulled low over his brow.

“At this point, Hilde informed us that she would be in pursuit,” Barton explained.

“Show me.”

Barton brought up a new camera angle, one placed just outside the auditorium.  The footage of her progress was seamless.  I studied her form and timing, but found nothing to critique.  Schbeiker’s office might be a disaster zone, but the woman moved with professional poise.  Fast and efficient.  She didn’t cut corners and didn’t hesitate.

In the end, that was what had earned her a knock to the forehead; she’d raced after the disguised Wilhelm, diving for the door he’d disappeared behind only to have the cur shove it open at her just as she reached for the handle.  His wrist flashed as he turned the lock.  Then, with a flash of fabric, he was gone again.

“We have footage of him getting redressed, but,” Barton said with a shrug that spoke volumes.

“But it was illegally obtained,” I sighed out.

“You can place him in Relena’s room,” Maxwell offered, gesturing to the second monitor which had a view of the foreign minister’s private residence.  The forensics team had collected the uniform from the staff locker room and was now cataloging the evidence in the suite.  Maxwell assured me, “He wasn’t wearing gloves, so the moron’s gotta have left fingerprints all over the damn place.”

The letter-opener alone would confirm this, I was sure.  Schbeiker was even now explaining the situation to Director Une.  A full forensics team would arrive as soon as the foreign minister’s guests had been successfully herded into the ballroom for the evening’s festivities.  It was tempting to enter the man’s fingerprints into the Preventers database.  It would undoubtedly match the ones he’d left on at least one of the supposedly inappropriate gifts he’d sent to the foreign minister.  It would be enough to bring him in for a long-overdue questioning.

However…

“We can hold him for seventy-two hours, but vandalism of government property is a misdemeanor,” I forced through gritted teeth.  Following his arraignment, the man would be more or less free to continue his unbalanced crusade to “save” Relena Darlian from the “bastard” Gundam pilot.  It was even possible that things would escalate; feeling persecuted by the authorities and even more certain of an outside threat to the object of his obsession, Wilhelm could be even more desperate to prove himself once he was released from custody.

It would likely put the foreign minister in even greater danger in the long run; Schbeiker and I could not afford the risk.

I glared at Wilhelm on the monitor.

_Ancestors, why are such fools permitted to exist at all?_

Maxwell must have picked up the gist of my muttered curse.  “Yeah,” he commiserated, head still bent over the smashed device he was dismantling.  “Sucks, huh?”

I scowled.  “Tell me about the flowers.”  I recalled watching their delivery on a monitor in this very room a few hours prior, but I was driven to confirm my recollection.  “Who delivered and signed for them?”

“Two steps ahead of ya, there, pal,” Maxwell assured me, cuing Barton with a cocked “air gun” gesture and a click of his tongue.

With a keystroke, his spouse wordlessly called up the footage.  I made a note of the florist’s logo on the van itself, the license number, and the driver’s face.  All of which would have to be checked thoroughly.

Barton narrated for Maxwell’s benefit, “And here’s Sylvia Noventa to sign for them.”

Not only sign for them, but also help the florist carry them into the building, clearly directing him in their precise placement.  I noted who walked past which arrangement and when, but there was no definitive proof of who had planted the laser sight that Wilhelm would discover in his blundering.

Either the man was a criminal mastermind whose plan was to misdirect us by misidentifying the very device he’d both installed and “discovered,” or he was afflicted with some sort of fugue-state during which he’d set up the laser sight himself and then completely forgotten having done so, _or_ we were facing a second and separate attempted assault within the Peace Building.

Given the number of people with both the motivation and means to stage an assassination, the third possibility was by far the most likely.  Which meant that Wilhelm was more than just an unbalanced stalker; he was now a potential witness.

I was gratified that Maxwell seemed to have processed this exact issue all on his own.  “So what’s the priority, man?”

Barton succinctly summarized the conundrum: “The devil you know or the devil you don’t?”

That was the question.  Were we going to arrest Wilhelm and remove him from the remainder of the conference, eliminating the one perpetrator we’d been able to identify, or were we going to continue monitoring him in hopes of gaining more information on this new threat?  Assuming he actually knew anything useful.

I was still woefully under-prepared to make that decision.  I queried, “What can you tell me about the laser sight?”

Maxwell threw up his hands and turned his back on the dismantled gadget which now resembled little more than a dozen dead gnats under the glare of the desk lamp.  “It’s Frankenstein’s monster,” he informed me cryptically.

I arched a brow at him and he quickly elaborated, “The optics are last year’s Marco Polo.  The microchip’s obsolete Imagen Tech.  The casing’s from a freakin’ bicycle company that makes battery-powered handlebar lights…  It’s a fucking mess.  There’s not enough here to trace to a seller, so—”

Barton concluded, “No way to trace it to a buyer.”

And without that information, there was little chance of answering the most pertinent question of all: who among the attendants of the summit was the intended target?

Moreover, why did Wilhelm assume that Foreign Minister Darlian had been it?

Either his psychosis turned and twisted everything into an attack against his supposed beloved, or he knew something we didn’t.  Regardless, he clearly saw himself as Foreign Minister Darlian’s champion.  Sitting him down for a formal interrogation would likely result in either sullen silence or mad, incomprehensible raving.  It would also very likely destroy what little trust – if any – the man might have in the authorities.  Not that the chemical imbalance in his underdeveloped cerebral cortex would incline him even remotely to share the glory of protecting his precious Relena with anyone.

However, suppose the man really did have information on a threat against the foreign minister and the discovery of the device he’d misidentified had confirmed it?  If so, it was highly doubtful he would confide such to me, a former Gundam pilot and possibly the very man he despised.  But a doe-eyed admirer might expertly draw him in and gain his confidence…

Gods above.  Schbeiker was never going to let me hear the end of this.

“We just got the go-ahead for an S-A9 response,” she told me the moment I entered the foreign minister’s private office.

“Who’s on the team?”

“Nichol is leading.”

“Fine.”  So long as we were operating precisely according to regulations, he would get the job done.

“Just a moment, if you don’t mind,” Foreign Minister Darlian interjected.  “What is an S-A9 response exactly?”

I educated her, “In situations such as these, we change the location and replace the regular staff with agents.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your people have just gotten the night off,” Schbeiker explained. “Also, no ballroom.  We’re moving the reception to the second floor music room.”

“It’s too small to accommodate—”

“Only the representatives and their respective chiefs-of-staff will be permitted entrance,” I told her.

“I see.  And this is going to prevent an assassination attempt?”

“It will tonight,” Schbeiker answered and I shared a frown with her; neither of us could completely guarantee that the assassin was not a representative or chief-of-staff, but that was why I would be escorting the foreign minister and the evening itself would supervised by a team of agents. 

What was far more worrisome was whatever unknowns the morrow would bring.

The foreign minister reached the same conclusion.  “Moving the reception will alert an assassin to the fact that they’ve lost the element of surprise.”

“By which time we’ll have the full support of the Preventers on the premises,” I vowed.  Schbeiker nodded; apparently, her discussion with the director had gone along those lines.

During my journey from Barton and Maxwell’s base of operations to the foreign minister’s private office, I’d looked at the situation from every conceivable angle.  There was no possible way we could move forward with the reception as scheduled.  Making changes at this point would force the attacker to withdraw, but there was no other option.  We still could not be certain of the assassin’s target.  Allowing the evening to proceed as initially planned in the hope of intercepting the attacker was worse than foolhardy and likely to get someone killed.

The Preventers did not make a practice or policy of ceding to threats.  If we did, the world’s governments would be at a perpetual stand-still.  The S-A9 gave us as much control as possible over a given situation while still promoting necessary functions such as this very summit.  The lives and livelihoods of the people the Preventers were sworn to protect would be affected by the outcome of this event.  Cancelling it or any vital aspect of it was out of the question.

“Why haven’t you asked me to cancel the reception entirely?”

It was a good question as I doubted any true progress would be made while the champagne was flowing.  In this case, our goal was to gather intelligence.  We still had one lead to investigate and cancelling the remainder of the evening would undoubtedly make that more difficult.  Schbeiker’s best chance to interrogate Wilhelm would be in an environment in which all appeared to be as close to status quo as possible.

“Because Manning Wilhelm may know something useful and it’s unlikely he’ll share that information with just anyone.”  I inclined my head toward my partner.  “But perhaps he’ll preen for a fan.”

Schbeiker’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

I resigned myself to the imminent “I told you so.”  I had to allow that it was well-earned.  Her instincts had been right about Wilhelm and her strategy to ingratiate herself with him might yet prove useful.  I didn’t doubt her ability to curry favor with the man and further win his trust—

“Absolutely not!”

The foreign minister’s objection bounced from one wall to the other despite the fact that she had not raised her voice.

“Absolutely not… what?” Schbeiker queried, seeming unsurprised at the outburst.

The foreign minister took a deep breath to collect herself.  “Why don’t I simply ask him?”  She looked from Schbeiker to me then back again.  “If he’s truly taken with me as you say, then I’m the one he’s most likely to open up to.”

“Not necessarily,” Schbeiker argued.

“Knights in shining armor can’t save the damsel if she isn’t in distress,” I pointed out, feeling my lip curl with disgust at the thought of Wilhelm, knight of the virtuous.  “Agent Schbeiker is not the damsel.  Nor is she the enemy.  This is our best strategy.”

“No,” the foreign minister asserted.  “We can’t take the risk.  Arrest him.”

Schbeiker gave the foreign minister an incredulous look.  “A formal arrest will be all over the news within the hour.”

“Then we will cancel the conference.  We don’t know who the target is, do we?  It could be anyone or everyone!  It’s irresponsible to continue under the circumstances.”

“The target is one person,” I reminded her.  “A laser sight is designed for a single target.”

“And if things have already escalated beyond that point?”

“That is why we must act quickly.  The S-A9 response will minimize unknown elements until full security measures can be implemented.”  Director Une would be calling in every single one of her people for this; everyone would be working all night to ensure the absolute security of the Peace Building and its current guests.

“This is the best way to minimize collateral damage,” Schbeiker added.

“Collateral damage of any kind is not acceptable!  I’m cancelling the summit.”

It was plain to see that Relena Darlian’s priorities had radically shifted.  This would have been welcome news twenty-four hours ago when the sole threat had been focused upon her.  Now, however…

“Suppose the assassin is after one of your guests,” I hypothesized.  “So long as that individual is here, he or she enjoys the immediate protection of the Preventers.  Sending everyone on their respective ways will not prevent the attack – it will merely provide less press coverage.”

The foreign minister turned away, but the logic could not be denied: we did not have enough information to make any sudden decisions; caution was called for lest a rash act lead to tragedy.

“We need to determine what Wilhelm knows, if anything,” I concluded.  “The most expeditious method is for Agent Schbeiker to continue fawning over the fool during tonight’s reception.”

My newest partner agreed, “I ooh and ahh over his amazing mad reporting skills.  Get him to puff up his chest.  He tells me he’s got a line on something big.  I hand him a superhero cape and… I’m in!  Piece of cake.”  She smirked.

I gaped at her for a solid second, momentarily distracted from the gravity of the situation.  “Are you and Maxwell related?” I demanded.

“Separated at birth,” Relena Darlian confirmed, crossing her arms over her chest and glowering at the main culprit of her displeasure.

Schbeiker rolled her eyes, shrugging off the impressive glare.  Her tone was so droll she could have been reciting her ABCs, “This isn’t my first rodeo.  You know I’ve got this.  Time’s a-wasting.  Let’s get this party started!”  Her brows lifted in expectation.

“Let’s,” I told her just as Relena objected, “No.”

“Foreign Minister,” I began, amazed that I hadn’t developed a headache yet.  Perhaps Maxwell had provided a sufficient warm-up for additional frustrations.  “This is why we are here.  Allow us to do the job we’ve been trained for.”

Schbeiker crossed the room and sat down on the sofa beside the foreign minister.  Their shoulders brushed.  Gently, she said, “I know it’s hard, but you have to trust us to know what we’re doing.”

We may have become partners a mere two days ago, but this seemed like the moment to remind her—

“I have your back, Schbeiker.”

She smiled but did not turn my way.  Instead, she gifted the smile meant for me to the woman beside her.  “I know you do, Chang.”

Yes, I was sure she did.  She knew me well enough – even if it was by reputation only – that I was a professional.  None of my previous partners had ever been abandoned or injured on my watch.  I would die before allowing it.  It was a matter of pride and I made no secret of the fact, not even to myself, that pride was one of the very few things in this world that I could claim as my own.

Once again speaking to Relena Darlian, Schbeiker insisted, “You know how capable we are.  We’ve got this.”

Relena Darlian lowered her head and took a deep breath.  Her shoulders slumped.  Her hands fisted on her lap.  I didn’t have to look at Schbeiker to know both that her resolve was unshaken and that my presence here was no longer required. 

“Excuse me,” I said, moving toward the door.  I was sure I could find something that required my attention.  Something sufficiently lacking in emotional females.

No one made an attempt to delay me as I shut the door behind me. I checked my watch.  There was much to do if the evening was to proceed as re-scheduled.

First, I paid a visit to security.  “Send this footage to Director Une.  Now,” I ordered, glaring as the sequence showing the florist’s delivery earlier in the day flashed across the nearest screen.  I followed this up with an encrypted phone call to the director herself.

“Thank you, Agent Chang.  I’ll put someone on it immediately.”

I didn’t doubt that she would.  More than just peace was at risk.  The reputation of the Preventers, the agency Une had built from the ground up, was on the line.  There was little she would not do to ensure it remained both transparent and an organization of integrity.

“I’ll be standing by for Nichol’s team to arrive,” I informed her, perhaps unnecessarily, before signing off.

The next point to address was located in the Peace Building staff room.  She was already dressed for the reception that she would not be attending, giving the servers a long list of reminders that they would have no need for tonight.  Of course, she would not know any of this until it was too late.

“Miss Noventa,” I called from the doorway, interrupting the briefing.

She startled.  “Agent Chang!  What can I do for you?”

“When you have a moment,” I commanded, gesturing for her to join me in the hall.

“Yes, of course.”  She concluded her instructions for the evening’s formal event and, upon sending the staff on their way, stepped through the doorway to where I awaited.

“Is everything all right?” she inquired.  She did her best to conceal her unease, but her face was pinched and her throat tense.

“The foreign minister will be attending the evening reception as planned, but there are several necessary changes to the program.  Your assistance would be appreciated.”

“Of course.  What does the foreign minister require?”

I barked out a list of instructions designed to put the woman and her staff into a frenzy of activity.  “Also,” I continued, “the reception will _not_ be standing room only.  Tables are required with seating assignments.  I trust the foreign minister has already spoken to you regarding acceptable arrangements?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Given the progress that was made at today’s assembly, Foreign Minister Darlian would also like you to review the highlights and prepare a press release in time for the nine o’clock news.”

“I—”

“Will do an admirable job, I’m sure,” I concluded and turned on my heel before she could do more than sputter at my retreating back.

It was unfortunate that Sylvia Noventa would not be permitted to attend the evening’s festivities regardless of whether her work was done, but I did not pity her.  She was a suspect with regards to the laser sight Wilhelm had unwittingly exposed and I had no intention of allowing her in the same room with Relena Darlian or her guests until – or if – she could be cleared of any wrongdoing.

Though it would not be utilized tonight, I made my way toward the ballroom on the first floor.  It was more imperative than ever that I examine every corner, crack, and window sill in search of unauthorized devices.

The staff were still arranging the banquet of appetizers and aperitifs upon the cloth-covered tables lining the far wall.  I went over the entire room, from the underside of every table to the crystal chandeliers overhead.  I found no sinisterly-placed contraptions in the bouquets, clipped to the drapes, or tucked along the molding.

That was not reassuring.

Tonight’s affair had been intended to be a mad crush.  It would be easier by far for an assassin to infiltrate such an event in order to reach his or her target rather than rely on methods such as the discovered laser sight.  And, as the laser sight had failed to achieve its purpose, I didn’t doubt that the next attempt would be very much in-person.

With this in mind, I placed another call on my cell phone.

“Disappointed and determined; we know what kind of individual we’re looking for,” Barton told me, forgoing a greeting.  “Both of us are on it.”

“Good,” I told him and hung up.  Barton and Maxwell would keep an eye on the guests and staff who would not be permitted to attend the now much more intimate gathering this evening.  One of them could be a frustrated killer.

But that did not necessarily mean that the attacker would not be taking part in the festivities tonight nonetheless.  It would be my job to ensure the foreign minister’s safety and it would be the responsibility of Nichol’s team to keep very sharp eyes on the guests themselves.

At that precise moment, my phone rang.  Nichol and his team had arrived.

I would have been impressed by his timeliness, but even a broken clock is correct twice a day.

I reached the second floor music room just ahead of him and his team.  It was a small victory that had me smiling at his sour expression.

“The director wants us to take over the reception,” he informed me with as much pomp as he could manage without a megaphone.

“Yes,” I agreed.  It was far more expeditious for me to concur with the man at the onset.  “I will be the foreign minister’s escort for the evening.”

“Do we have a description of the suspect?”

“No.”  Again, short words were best when attempting anything resembling communication with the man.

He nodded, clearly feeling more self-important than ever in the face of my lack of results.  “We’ll be on the lookout.”  With a gesture, he waved his team forward.  All off of whom, himself included, were dressed smartly in the standard uniform of the Peace Building at the height of formality: black tuxedoes.

As carts of alcoholic beverages rattled past with a glassy tinkle, a young agent I’d yet to work with thrust a garment bag in my direction.

“Sir?” he prompted me when I continued glaring at the offering.

Somehow suppressing a snarl, I grabbed the thing and stalked off to the office where we’d conducted the press and staff interviews the day before.  The only advantage to wearing a tuxedo curtesy of the Preventers was the ample room for a sidearm that the jacket allowed.  That logistic was sorted.  However, there were still several ground rules to go over with the foreign minister before we commenced with the evening.

“Do not grope me,” I informed her.

She sputtered.  “I beg your pardon!”

Schbeiker barked out a laugh.

I continued, “You’ve come rather close to encountering my sidearm on more than one occasion.”  At this point, I glared at the form-fitting gown and slender-heeled shoes she’d foolishly chosen for the evening.  How did females expect to maintain their balance in such things?  It was a reenactment of Wilhelm’s earlier performance waiting to happen.  “If you insist on clinging to my arm as has been your habit, then you will have to keep your hands confined to my left arm, below the elbow.”

“So dancing is out of the question?” Schbeiker cheekily interjected.

Foreign Minister Darlian’s brows arched.  “I’m quite sure we’ll be having a bit of snit this evening,” she countered and I smirked.

“That will certainly please Wilhelm.”

At the mere mention of the cur’s name, the foreign minister turned toward Schbeiker.  Before she could do more than draw a breath, my partner assured her, “I’ll be careful.”

I was pleased to note that Schbeiker’s formal wear was far more practical than the foreign minister’s.  It even included a tailored jacket meant to conceal her own weapon.  It was redundant to place a call to Barton to alert him of our progress.  Likewise, Nichol would be conducting the operation as he liked.  Contacting him would result in little more than grudging _permission_ to enter his domain.

I held out my left arm.  “At your discretion, Foreign Minister.”  It was the only invitation I would be extending.

“Very well,” she capitulated, stepping forward and laying her right hand upon my forearm rather than tucking it in the crook of my elbow.  Someone had evidently coached her on the best way to stay out of the way of a concealed weapon and its agent’s attempt to retrieve it.  Acceptable.

The event itself was not.

Following Schbeiker’s parting wink and cheeky “Have fun, kids!” I found myself surrounded by over-cologned imbeciles.  A chamber orchestra had originally been booked for the evening, but given the circumstances, they’d not been appraised of the change of venue.  Nichol’s team had brought a sound system and music.  I could barely hear a generic recording of Debussy over the inebriated discussions that rebounded in the room.  Discussions.  What an utter waste of time.  Nothing would be decided or determined here, nothing that would aid the goal of the conference. This was an excuse to be _seen_.

I was not impressed.

“You’ll never be a politician, will you, Agent Chang?” the foreign minister remarked as I maneuvered her through the throng.

“I should hope not.”

She smiled.  “It might help belay those frown lines.”

“My scowl and I have a very special relationship.”

Her laughter surprised me with its sincerity.  “I can see that.”

“Is that all?”

“Of course not,” she replied, her fingers tightening on my arm.  “I can see quite far beyond your disgruntled curmudgeon.”

“And what a lovely view that must be.”  I certainly had no doubts that whatever lurked beneath my professional facade was utterly mundane, but her response surprised me.

“A most virtuous and honorable shore.  A fine view, indeed.”

I turned away from the blustery and perspiring politicians and met her gaze.  “I beg your pardon.”

Relena Darlian’s smile widened.  “Absolutely not.  Begging does not suit you in the slightest, Chang Wufei.”

I stiffened at the use of my given name, but did not have the opportunity to remind her that she was speaking to an agent of the peace before one of the aforementioned buffoons rudely inserted himself into the foreign minister’s personal space.

“Miss Darlian—”

“Foreign Minister Darlian,” I corrected him, pulling her back a step.

The foreign minister graciously disregarded the man’s social gaffe, but did not resist my guidance.  “Yes, Mister Albernon.  How are you enjoying the evening?”

As the moron blathered on about the champagne, I tucked my right hand into the pocket of my tuxedo where the controls to my earwick were located.  Dialing up the volume, I heard Schbeiker’s voice and deduced from its saccharine quality that she was interrogating Wilhelm.  

“… awfully interesting work you do!  The people you interview must be fascinating!  Nothing like the criminals I have to deal with day in and day out.”

I heard a man’s voice but it was too indistinct for me to discern his words.  I was about to adjust the volume further up, but just then Schbeiker twittered out a giggle that could rupture eardrums.  I made an effort to keep my expression neutral as I returned the volume to its previous level.  Barton would call if Schbeiker was in need of backup.

Just then, Albernon turned to wave a colleague over to join his chummy, superficial chat with Foreign Minister Darlian, and the foreign minister quietly inquired of me, “Agent Schbeiker?”

“Fine,” I replied quietly, then spotting a less congested area of the room, turned the foreign minister toward it with a loud, “Pardon us.”

The woman on my arm sighed.  “As much as I appreciate the fresher air, the guests will mutiny if you insist on keeping me all to yourself.”

I snorted.  “You, madam, are the one still clinging to _my_ arm.”

“Then why don’t I steer _you_ for a bit?”

“May your venture meet with success, Foreign Minister,” I replied.  Scanning the room, I avoided making eye contact with Nichol or the members of his team.  Staff were meant to provide a service, not be noticed themselves.  In doing so, I might jeopardize their cover.  As I’d yet to hear the pre-arranged signal via my earwick to take cover, it was clear that no threats had been identified yet.

The crowd in the room quickly converged on the foreign minister and once again I was forced to maneuver us to a more open space.  I could hardly anticipate an attack if I could not see past a ring of peacocks in monochrome.  And since the foreign minister insisted on speaking to as many of her guests as possible, I was reduced to pirouetting her to advantageous areas of the ever-shifting landscape.

“This is the slowest and longest waltz I can ever remember dancing, Agent Chang,” she volunteered five posturing nitwits later.

“I endeavor to be unforgettable.”

“I’m certain Agent Schbeiker won’t let you forget this.”

“Only if she is informed of the unfortunate parallel you pointed out.”

“You’re partners,” the foreign minister insisted as a new dandy started his approach, “don’t you share everything?”

I snorted at the naiveté inherent in such an assumption, but I said nothing.  The foreign minister’s latest admirer was insisting on his fifteen minutes of fame.  The next representative to demand her attention was none other than Winner.  He was the epitome of charm and Yuy all business.  I continued scanning the throng, dialing in to Schbeiker’s remarks to check on her progress.

Glaciers conceded ground more swiftly than that daft Wilhelm.

The chime of midnight could not come soon enough, but at last the bells were pealing through the room.  The lights dimmed twice.  As more than half of the room’s occupants swarmed the bar for last call, I escorted the foreign minister out of the room, urging her forward despite the farewells and well-wishes she attempted to offer anyone she laid eyes on.

“Thank goodness that’s over,” she muttered wearily as we made our way down the empty hall toward the grand foyer.  “Agent Schbeiker?” she checked yet again.  For the eighth time.

As the woman was currently rambling about some asinine anecdote or other in my ear, I promptly reported back, “She is fine.”

The foreign minister sighed heavily.  “I’d give my right arm for a little peace and unscented quiet.”

I chuckled.  “The fact that your right arm is the one in contact with me has nothing to do with its disposability, I hope.”

She grinned.  “It might.  You know—”

“—Manning, what are you saying?” Schbeiker gasped with such force that my eardrum buzzed.  I knew from what I’d memorized of the building layout that the press corps was gathered in the large, extravagant foyer beyond and below us, waiting for one last chance to make contact with inebriated politicians as they wove and stumbled off to their respective rooms for the remainder of the night.

We were approaching the very banister that overlooked that area and if Schbeiker was going to get anything out Wilhelm, then I could not allow Foreign Minister Darlian to disrupt the moment.

I lifted a finger and pressed it to the foreign minister’s lips as I twirled her smoothly into a curtained alcove.  The leaded glass windows overlooked a small garden illuminated by the lights of the party currently winding down in the music room.  The foreign minister remained perfectly silent, straining to hear what I was clearly focused on.

I dialed up the volume on my earwick and whispered to the foreign minister, “I may not be able to hear it if someone approaches our position.”

She nodded and I focused my attention on Schbeiker’s side of the interrogation.

“My God, Manning.  What are you going to do?  If someone’s really after Foreign Minister Darlian…!”

I glared down the hall, trying to keep my line of sight open while absorbing what I could of the conversation.

“Wow… that’s so brave of you to warn her like that.  No, no of course she didn’t tell me.  Why would she if she trusts you to look after her?”

I scowled at Schbeiker’s tactic.  Was she unaware that she was stoking the flames of the man’s religious fervor?

“So you have no clue who’s behind it?  You must have some idea!  This is your area of expertise!”

 _Yes, spit out a name, you useless scum,_ I bid him.

The foreign minister gripped my arm tighter.  “Someone’s coming!”

Damn it all.

I hurriedly reached for my cell phone, intending to fake a sudden and urgent conversation, but the foreign minister apparently fancied herself an agent as well.  She leaned up until our lips brushed at which point it was too late to prevent the owner of the approaching footsteps from seeing us.

I kissed her back.

She kept the bodice of her dress from blocking my reach to my weapon, for which I was appreciative.  Far more appreciative than I was with regards to her attentions, but I lifted my left hand to support the back of her head, angling her so that I could maintain my view of the hall through narrowed eyes.

What appeared to be four extremely inebriated union representatives wove past on wobbly legs, laughing at some banal witticism or other.  None of them glanced in our direction, passing by utterly oblivious to our embrace.

Their chiefs-of-staff followed in their wake; luck was with me in that their gazes did not venture toward the alcove… with the exception of one.  Heero Yuy’s gaze met mine for the briefest moment and I belatedly realized that Winner was one of the four chummy representatives meandering toward the guest wing.  In blank-minded shock, my fingers spasmed, clenching in the foreign minister’s carefully styled hair.

And then the moment passed as Yuy’s momentum carried him beyond the range of my view.

I leaned back and looked down at Relena Darlian’s uplifted face: her clear blue eyes and soft pink lips.

“Next time,” I whispered, “please permit me to handle our cover, foreign minister.”  I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and held it up meaningfully.

She bit her lip.  Her eyes sparkled.  “Where’s the fun in that?”

I sneered.  “I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself.”

She pinched my arm.  The left one.  Below my elbow.  “One of these days, I hope you do, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I know you've got something to say about spunky Schbeiker and sassy Relena. C'mon, be brave and share with me, you lovely thing you. (^_~)


	7. A Taste for Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does the saying go -- "if you hope for peace, prepare for war"?

I studied the monitor intently, synching the movements of Schbeiker’s mouth with her inane twittering, which I was still listening to via earwick.  The security staff in the building surveillance room were used to intrusions by Preventer agents, so I was left undisturbed and able to examine each and every minute detail, looking for any indication that Wilhelm was violent, unstable, or guilty of conspiring to attack a summit attendee.

Despite the hand Schbeiker would occasionally lay on the imbecile’s arm, his attention constantly drifted toward the grand staircase and the second floor banister ringing the foyer.  One by one, opportunistic trade representatives negotiated the carpeted steps on wobbly legs in order to boast the evening’s progress for the assembled press corps, but Wilhelm had no interest in impromptu speeches lubricated by copious amounts of champagne and Chivas Regal.

“You must be exhausted,” Schbeiker sympathized with enough sweetness to rival Agent Noin’s most hormonal utterance.  “What do you say we go get that coffee?  Who knows – if we compare notes, maybe you’ll be able to figure out who’s after Foreign Minister Darlian?”

He was tempted – I could see it in the way his hands fisted and his jaw clenched.  He wanted to ride to his princess’s rescue more than he wanted his next scoop.

Beside me, seated off to the side in a quiet corner for the time-out I’d assigned her, the foreign minister stiffened.  “What’s happening?” she breathed.

I held up a hand.  I could be at Schbeiker’s side in twelve seconds.  I braced myself and waited for Wilhelm’s reaction.

“You know, maybe I’m over-reacting,” I read from the movements of his lips.  “It’s been a long day.  Can I get a rain check on that coffee?”

“Of course!  You have my card—call me.”

Both Schbeiker and I watched Wilhelm consult with his cameraman before they began packing up.  Fifteen minutes later, Schbeiker escorted them both to the main entrance and waved good-bye as they took their leave.  I watched their progress on the monitors carefully until the news van chugged through the security checkpoint and turned onto the road.

“Chang, can you confirm Wilhelm’s departure?” Schbeiker checked.

“Yes.  Turning left onto Waterloo Boulevard now.”

“Let’s meet back at the foreign minister’s private office.”

“On our way.”  I gestured for Foreign Minister Darlian to follow me.  She did so without attaching herself to my arm, thank the ancestors.

“So, did you kids have a good time tonight?” Schbeiker perkily inquired upon our arrival.

“Foreign Minister Darlian seemed to enjoy herself immensely,” I reported to Senior Agent Schbeiker.  “Unless she makes a habit of kissing all of her on-duty escorts, in which case, it was an evening just like any other.”

Schbeiker’s brows hitched upward.  “Oh, really?”

Foreign Minister Darlian unflinchingly met the building intensity in Schbeiker’s tone and expression.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do,” I announced.  I did not wait for a dismissal.  Pivoting smartly, I made my way to the hall before the foreign minister’s stroppy look could manifest itself verbally.  I’d never been much for spectator sports.  If later events required that I know what was being said behind closed doors, a consultation with the ever-watchful Barton and Maxwell would probably suffice.

Nichol and his team were taking their time packing up, using the excuse to sweep every inch of the wing.  I reported the foreign minister’s safety and then headed back to the office I’d used to change clothes.  Returning the tuxedo to its garment bag, I hug it on a hook behind the door.  Collecting my laptop, I made the surveillance room my next stop and copied the security footage from the foyer and the music room (as well as the hallway connecting the two) onto the hard drive. 

It was 00:47 – I would have just enough time to return home for a shower, four hours and twenty minutes of rest, and Maxwell-approved portions of caffeine before reporting for duty if I departed now.  I wasn’t entirely satisfied to be leaving the Peace Building given the day’s developments, but without some rest I doubted I’d be of much use the following day, which would arguably be the most dangerous of the summit thus far.

I texted Schbeiker: _Departing premises.  Will return at 06:00._

In reply, my phone buzzed with an incoming call.  “I want to go over the security footage with you,” she informed me and I swallowed a sigh.

“Very well.”

“Minister’s private office.”

“Understood.”

Upon my return, I found Schbeiker seated at the foreign minister’s desk.  The door to the private quarters beyond was closed nearly all the way, but I glimpsed only darkness within.

“She’s resting,” Schbeiker told me quietly.  I wordlessly set up my laptop on the smaller computer desk and called up the video feed I’d obtained from the building’s mainframe.  I watched the silent footage as Schbeiker quickly typed out every word of her dialog with Wilhelm, including time stamps.  The reception had lasted nearly three hours.  Luckily, Schbeiker had not spent all that time attempting to charm and disarm the buffoon.

“Skip through this bit,” she directed and I watched as Wilhelm had a lengthy conversation with another news reporter.

“Did he give you anything we can follow-up on?” I pressed.

“Not really, no.  I think he’s simply incorporated all of this into his fantasy.”

“Including the device?  Could he have planted it himself?”

She tilted her head to the side and huffed a breath out through her nose.  “Doubtful.  He was pretty convinced that he had a rival to contend with.”

“Until you offered valuable assistance,” I pointed out.

“Haven’t seen anyone backpedal that fast since my last trip to the circus.”  At my prompting glance, she elaborated, “They did this act with a bicycle on a high-wire and—never mind.  That wasn’t the actual backpedaling.  It was JC.”

I coughed out a serving of disbelief.  “Cross was riding a bicycle on a high-wire?” I intoned.

“Dammit, no, but I would have paid _double_ to see that.”  She grinned.  “No, that was the day JC found Tris… after the accident?”

I nodded.  I remembered hearing about that.  I also recalled the self-loathing that had followed Winner like a scraggly stray puppy for months after we’d taken up our assigned positions at WEI.  It had not been Barton’s fate alone for which Winner had been attempting to atone; the colony he’d destroyed when he’d been utterly overwhelmed by the Zero System had weighed just as heavily upon his shoulders.  I knew that much, but I had never heard the details.

Perhaps it was a measure of my exhaustion that I prompted Schbeiker to elaborate, “And?”

She shrugged a shoulder.  “Well, after the show, JC just takes off – sprints for backstage – and races up to the poor guy, right?  Grabs his shoulders and he’s going a mile minute about how everyone thought Tris was dead and Tris starts freaking out and _that_ is when Cathy showed up.”  Schbeiker chuckled.  “I have never seen anyone put the fear of God into JC before or since.”

The story intrigued me.  It was another layer in the strata that was Maxwell and Barton’s indestructible partnership.  I found it interesting that the two of them had followed that highly emotional meeting with a calm and nearly silent game of chess aboard Peace Million on the eve of battle.  As far as I knew, that very game had remained unfinished.  Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I could see how it had continued throughout our years at WEI: Maxwell had relentlessly – and, to a great extent, in ignorance – drawn Barton closer and closer.  Not with the intention of doing the other man harm, of course, but he’d negated Barton’s defenses nonetheless.

I shook my head in wonderment.  Maxwell truly did not know his own strength.

“Here,” Schbeiker suddenly said, drawing my attention back to the monitor.  Where it should have been.  I was clearly exhausted if years-old recollections were interrupting my focus.  “This is where I nearly get something out of him.”

I stared hard at Wilhelm’s face, but couldn’t make out the indistinct mumble that barely moved his lips.  I glanced at the screen of Schbeiker’s laptop and read as she typed:

_The foreign minister is never completely safe.  Every day, new groups pop out of the woodwork looking to make a name for themselves.  For far too many people, the war just gave them the taste for violence._

It was nothing I hadn’t suspected myself, but to hear it coming from a news anchor…  I wondered what details his sources had shared with him that perhaps had not yet made their way to a Preventer informant.

Schbeiker had done her best to milk the man for as much information as she could, employing every interrogation technique possible given the circumstances.  I could applaud her for those efforts.  However, her encouragement that _he_ be the one to protect Relena Darlian was utterly—

“Foolhardy,” I chastised Schbeiker, senior agent or no.  “You’ve made yourself part of the fantasy now.  You’ve validated his mad obsession.”

Her brows lifted halfway to her bruised hairline.  She’d removed her cosmetics at some point following the reception and I could easily evaluate the injury.  “You think I wanted to say that crap?”  She glanced over her should toward the door that stood ajar.  “Still, we’ve got Wilhelm’s prints on the letter opener.  He’s on a short leash.  It’s only a matter of time.”

That was true.  In the meantime, the Preventers would be watching him very closely.

I checked my watch.  “Did forensics arrive?”  The mention of the most recent vandalism had reminded me.

“Yeah.  They called and I briefed them while you were downstairs getting the surveillance footage.  Probably just wrapping up now.”  She nodded for me to continue playing the video and we finished up the script from her conversation with Wilhelm.  Upon emailing the packet of video and text off to the digital forensics department at headquarters, I glanced at Schbeiker as she rubbed her eyes tiredly.  When she took her hand away, I noticed moisture shining on her fingers.

“Get some sleep,” I told her.

“Naw, I’m good.”

“I insist.  For the Foreign Minister’s sake.”

“And just where are you planning on bunking tonight?”

“I still have work to do,” I informed her.  It was true; I probably would not have slept more than an hour had I returned home.  There were too many loose ends to attend to and it was my responsibility as much as Schbeiker’s to make sure they were dealt with competently.

She sighed and looked at the time.  “Give me ninety minutes.  Then I want you to wake me.  We’re taking shifts.”

I could hear the “or else” in her tone.  “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll kick your butt from here to Bolivia, Chang.”

“You and whose army?” I challenged with a quirked brow.

“Won’t need one.  You’ll be so pathetically sleep deprived it’ll be like chucking around a sack of dirty laundry.”

I snorted but didn’t waste valuable energy denying it.  She placed a hand on my shoulder, bracing herself as she stood up.  She didn’t thank me for taking the first shift.  I didn’t remind her that I was only doing my job.

A job which I had chosen years ago of my own free will and continued to choose every day thereafter.

Schbeiker stretched out on the sofa against the wall opposite the private quarters, placed her sidearm within easy reach, and closed her eyes.  Not two minutes later, her soft snore joined the steady whirr of my laptop’s hard drive as I worked through my mental checklist.

The florist.

Sylvia Noventa.

Manning Wilhelm and his brief flash of discomfort during his pre-summit interview.

The latter was easy enough to investigate.  I combed through the security logs archive and located the video files from the post-war celebration.  I watched as Wilhelm downed his sixth glass of champagne before marching out onto the dance floor to smoothly cut in between Relena Darlian and her current partner.  His fingers curled tightly around her hand.  Midway through their second dance, a man of intimidating stature interceded and claimed the young woman’s attention.  I did not know this man, but he watched Wilhelm sulk away, glaring after the rotter until Wilhelm had disappeared from the room.

I checked the other security footage from the evening, but found nothing out of the ordinary… that is, until an ambulance pulled up to the security checkpoint with its lights flashing.

“Wufei?”

I glanced over my shoulder at the sound of Relena Darlian’s soft call.  I’d heard the telltale rustle of a blanket in the room beyond and the sound of footsteps brushing the plush carpet, but hadn’t looked away from the monitor.  If the foreign minister required a midnight snack, she was welcome to the energy bar tucked in the outer pocket of my briefcase.  And, as she was fully capable of fetching it herself, I had no intention of interrupting my task to attend to her.

“Schbeiker has 15 minutes left,” I informed her on a breath.

She nodded, looking past me to the agent still snoring softly on the sofa.  Then she invited herself to take the seat beside mine, folding herself into its embrace like it was a second housecoat.  “This is the night of the Peace Ball, isn’t it?”

I nodded.  “You remember it?”

“Of course.  It’s not every day we have to call for emergency medical service.”

“What happened?”

“Lord Fitzhuey – the steward of the Sanq Kingdom – fell from the terrace and hit his head on one of the stone planters.  He nearly died.”

I replayed the video, rewinding to the large man who had sent Wilhelm scampering from the dance floor.  “This is Fitzhuey?”

“Yes.”

“He was protecting you.”

“He protects the Peacecraft family.”

“Where is he now?”

“Retired.  His injury was… severe.”

“Was a report filed?  Did he tell you what he remembered of that night?  Of his fall?”

She shook her head.  “But I haven’t spoken with him in a long time.  He returned to Sanq.  Last I heard, chronic headaches were still preventing him from resuming his duties.”

I nodded and added yet another point to my checklist.  I excused myself to use the restroom – “Through there,” Relena Darlian directed me – and I passed through the small, serviceable den (with an enviably large sofa that the foreign minister had been utilizing) to reach the facilities.

Upon washing up, I dug out my phone, calculated the time difference, and placed a call to the office of the Sanq government.

It was still far too early in the morning for the receptionist to accommodate my request, but I instructed her to make arrangements as soon as possible for either myself or Agent Hilde Schbeiker to speak with Lord Fildemore Fitzhuey.

Returning to the office, I found Schbeiker sitting behind my laptop, toggling between the different video angles I’d left on the screen.  Relena Darlian wished me a good night as she returned to her room and pushed the door nearly shut once again.

Quietly, I told Schbeiker, “I’ve placed a call to Sanq.”

She nodded, still staring at the screen.  “It looks like everyone was drinking heavily that night.”  Letting out a deep breath, she shook her head.  “We – the Preventers, I mean – we should have seen it.  Wilhelm.  We should have made the connection.”

I placed a hand on her shoulder.  I didn’t remind her that she’d still been pedaling scrap in L2 when this had occurred.  It would not have comforted me, were I in her shoes.  “As far we know, no one else has been attacked.”  It was the only solace I could provide.

She accepted it with a tired but grateful smile.  “Get your butt to bed before I make good on my earlier threat.”

I pointedly looked at my watch.  “Your ninety minutes will be up in exactly… twenty seconds.”

She snorted softly with amusement and waved me away.

I went.

The sofa was still warm from her time upon it.  The indentations from her shoulder and hip remained as well.  I flipped the matching throw pillow over, slid my right hand and gun beneath it, and closed my eyes.

An instant later, I opened them as a beam of light stabbed through my closed eye lids.  _Ancestors both infamous and beloved, all I ask for is five more minutes of sweet respite._

I heard Schbeiker snort in response to my grumbles.  “On your feet, sourpuss.  I need a power nap and then it’s show time.”

The monumental effort that I expended in order to swing my legs over the side of the sofa and sit up went completely unappreciated.  Schbeiker had already plopped down next to me and was attempting to wiggle her way into the narrow space between my back and the sofa cushions.

“All you had to say was ‘please,’” I grouched.

“Yeah right.  You’d tell me to stick it where the sun don’t shine.”  She yawned widely enough to crack the joints in her jaw.

“Well, as it would have been said in my native language, I doubt you’d have been overly bothered.”

She snored in response.  But having already heard her noise-making tendencies in true slumber, I was certain this one was manufactured.

I stood up and crossed the room, rapping twice on the door to the private rooms.

“It’s open!”

“Foreign Minister,” I greeted and waited for her response before entering the room.

“Good morning.  Thank you for staying last night,” the foreign minister continued with a brief glance up from the documents spread out over the long coffee table.  She was already dressed and groomed for the day.  I consulted my watch.  05:40.

“There’s a shaving kit in the bathroom,” she added.

If only there were a time capsule alongside it so that I might enjoy a full night’s rest, a hot shower, and freshly laundered clothes.  I sneered at my reflection in the mirror.  Beggars couldn’t be choosers and from the looks of it I certainly qualified as a vagrant of some sort.

A shave did little to improve my appearance.  The scrape along my hairline stood out twice as vibrantly as I recalled, a visual effect that was enhanced when I tidied up my hair.

“Here, try this.”

I turned and stared blankly at the item the foreign minister was holding out to me.  “What,” I uttered, “is that?”

Her lips twitched so briefly I wondered if I’d imagined it out of sheer sleep deprivation.  “A marvelous disguise,” she informed me, then gestured to the closed lid of the commode.  “Here, sit.”

I did no such thing.  I watched with distaste as she opened the nondescript, plastic container and removed a small, flesh-colored sponge.  “I do not require cosmetics.”

“It looks like you require an undertaker.”

“I’m sure I’ll be more intimidating as a member of the undead.”

“Won’t the tabloids love that,” she muttered through a smile.  “Zombies in the Peace Building.  Now stop complaining and tilt your chin down.”

I glowered.  “I refuse to wear more makeup than that nitwit of a news reporter.”

“You won’t be.  I promise.”

With a long sigh, I gave in.  I would undoubtedly regret this, but I simply didn’t have the energy for the required indignation.  The foreign minister dabbed the sponge against my forehead, instructing me to close my eyes as she blended the powder over my brow and temples.

“You know,” she volunteered, “I went to school with Manning.  I’ve known him since the first day of classes.  We were six years old.”

I opened my eyes and studied her expression.

“We even attended the same boarding school, right up until the night of my fifteenth birthday party.”

“And what became of your chummy camaraderie thereafter?”

“I left to pursue my destiny,” she replied bluntly.  “I never gave a thought to how that would affect the people I’d left behind.”

“Someone is always left behind,” I pointed out and the foreign minister’s hand froze just over my brow.  “It is inevitable.” 

I have seen Maxwell, Winner, Barton, and Yuy – all war-hardened soldiers – flinch at the ring of truth when it is spoken aloud.  Like them, I too felt the sting of my own words; I remembered Meiran.  I recalled Master Long.  My family.  My young cousins.

The power of speech truly was aptly named.  I endured the whiplashes first and foremost, every time.  I doubted any of my comrades had ever noticed.

The foreign minister did.  She grasped my shoulder.  “Yes, it is inevitable that we must grow apart and grow up.  It’s a privilege that most people don’t appreciate.”

My chin jerked up.  I scanned her face, studied every nuance.  It was not often that I was given food for thought.  I said nothing as the sponge descended yet again.

“There.  It’s not precisely your color, but at least you don’t look like you’re fighting a craving for fresh brain matter.”

I scoffed at the idea.  “As if those imbeciles have anything between their ears that would be worth the effort.”

“That’s the spirit,” she congratulated me.

I glanced in the mirror as she moved to retreat and I was forced to admit that the cosmetics had accomplished their intended purpose: I looked passably rested.  The application of artificial color was not a habit I was interested in acquiring, but just this once I would allow female intervention in my daily toilet routine.

Schbeiker had also partaken of some cosmetic or other; when I returned to the office, she was sitting up in the sunshine, her bruise from the day before perfectly concealed.  She stood and moved toward the door, clearly intending to lead our march to the breakfast room.

“Don’t get between me and the coffee,” she advised me.

“Ladies first,” I drawled.

“I owe you an eye-roll for that.”

“My life’s ambition is realized at long last.”

“And there’s the second dose of sarcasm.  Are we going for double-or-nothing?” she retorted.

“By all means, let’s start the day with a gambling metaphor.”

She winced, clearly less than thrilled with the reminder of the challenges that we would inevitably face today.  “You _would_ be a curmudgeon this early in the morning.”

“Am I not always this agreeable, no matter the time of day?”

“Geez-o-Pete.  You are.  How did I not notice before now?”

The Foreign Minister stepped between us and reached for the door knob.  “Come along, children.  There will be plenty of coffee and tea for everyone.”

Well, she was correct in that, at least.

The crowd was more subdued than they had been the previous morning; it was obvious that the morning-after hangovers were plentiful.

“You,” I accused the foreign minister as she buttered a steaming muffin, “planned this.”

“Did I?”  She didn’t seem particularly surprised or offended by my remark.

I smirked and took a sip of mediocre green tea.  Where the photo ops with children had failed to provide many of the representatives with the proper perspective, it appeared that whiplash from overindulgence had succeeded in subduing them.  As I expected, upon hearing the warning chime for the morning congress, they wincingly rose in dribs and drabs, shuffling dutifully like so many herd animals toward the auditorium.

Only Winner and a handful of others appeared to have their wits about them.

The coming vote was guaranteed to be one of the quickest in recorded history.  If for no other reason than the representatives’ main priority was to refill their coffee cups and procure a second dose of analgesics as soon as possible.

I scanned the attending staff members, spotting the familiar faces of my fellow agents.  The director had indeed mustered the troops.  The Preventers had taken over the summit right down to the last usher and server.  It should have been reassuring to see such an efficient and immediate response, but the spot between my shoulder blades itched.  The small muscles bracketing my spine twitched.  After all, it was impossible for someone to literally watch their own back.

As the representatives filed into the auditorium, I lingered in the hall.  Schbeiker escorted our charge on ahead as I placed a call.  It went unanswered.  I called a second number.

“Yo, Wu,” Maxwell greeted.  “Armstrong’s got your back.  Just don’t look too hard for him.”

“What do you need?” I asked.

“Got it all covered, man.”  He hung up before I could cut the connection.

“Agent Chang?”

I turned and discovered a very displeased assistant to the foreign minister standing in the middle of the hall, feet shoulder width apart and arms akimbo.  “Miss Noventa,” I acknowledged.

“I understand that I’m a suspect.”

I did not deny it.

She straightened her shoulders.  “I don’t suppose you’d do me the curtesy of telling me what I’m accused of?  It must be quite impressive to get me banned from contacting my own employer.”

“It is,” I allowed, but said nothing further.

She glared at me until my impassive expression soured her irritation into disgust.  “Rather than giving me inconsequential busywork that was a complete and utter waste of my time and energy, you might have simply told me.”

I made no attempt to justify why I hadn’t.

Sylvia Noventa concluded, “I’d expected better from you.”

With calculated indifference, I watched her walk away in the opposite direction of the auditorium.  If her intention had been to chastise me, she’d failed.  I had been doing my job.  Kindness of the variety that soothed egos and eased hurt feelings was not listed among my professional responsibilities.

What was more pertinent was the fact that Sylvia Noventa had overcome her unease to admonish me.  The real question was whether she’d done so because the changes to the previous evening’s events had thwarted her and her cohorts’ efforts to carry out their plans or because she was genuinely offended, which would imply that she had trusted me and I had broken that trust when I had kept her both ignorant and out from underfoot.

Only time and further evidence would disprove one or both theories.

Still in my hand, my phone buzzed.  I lifted it to my ear.  “Go ahead.”

Maxwell blurted, “We have a problem.  In the auditorium, 3 o’clock.”

I quickly caught up with the crowd and, standing on the threshold of the room, scanned the indicated area, I spotted a blonde woman working her way through the throng.  Her suit, her hair, her posture… from this perspective – seen from behind – she appeared to be Sylvia Noventa.

This was, indeed, a problem.  “Impossible,” I told Maxwell.

“Exactly.  Tris is moving to intercept.”

“Confirm that Sylvia Noventa is not in the auditorium,” I hissed.

“Confirmed,” Maxwell reported back.  “She’s in the Guest Services office.”

Then who in the hell was this?

I kept the phone line open as I surveyed the room, searching for any indication of what the woman might be doing.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one.

None other than Wilhelm was trailing in her wake.  She stumbled, one slender heel of her conservative pumps twisting in the thick, lumpy carpet.  She bumped into the Tin and Aluminum representative and her clipboard tumbled from her grasp.  She stooped to retrieve it, and suddenly – inexplicably – I knew that something was about to happen.  My tongue soured with the taste of it.  The same eerie premonition that had saved me from being blown to bits along with the blue bird bomber once again lifted the veil from my eyes.

“Schbeiker,” I began, speaking both into the phone and into the earwick mic, “blonde female, grid H-2,” I described, using the map we’d made of the room, “navy suit, 5’6”, 60 kilograms.  Confirm visual.”

“Visual confirmed.  It’s Sylvia.”

“No,” I told her.  “It is not.”

Schbeiker was silent as she re-evaluated the subject.  “Confirmed,” she concurred.  “She has something in her hand: a clipboard and… unidentified electronic device.”

Neither Schbeiker nor myself bothered to speculate on what an unauthorized  individual might be planning to do with an electronic device in a room full of colony lobbyists and politicians.  But how?  _How_ was the attack to be implemented?

I took a step into the room, treading upon the poorly-laid, gaudy golden carpet.

The carpet.  The _new_ plush carpet with thick-hemmed edges and irritating bubbles beneath its surface.  The carpet that ringed the entire auditorium like a snare.

I gazed at the assembly in dawning horror.  The foreign minister, the union representatives, and the full force of the Preventers all stood within its grasp.

“The carpet,” I told Maxwell and Schbeiker very quietly as I moved forward.  “The carpet is a factor in their plans.”

Due to an impenetrable gaggle of politicos, the suspect was forced to make a detour which brought her and the items she carried into my direct line of sight.  What appeared to be a microphone amplifier was sitting atop the woman’s clipboard.  She unhurriedly made her way to toward the stage and the Foreign Minister’s seat in the center of the long table.  Again and again, I was blocked by oblivious idiots.  She reached her target before I was halfway across the room.  She placed the clipboard upon the table, presumably delivering the final draft of Foreign Minister Darlian’s address to congress, adjusted the microphone stand, and moved to exit on the opposite side.

Her hands were empty.  Spotting the small, black electronic box now connected to the foreign minister’s microphone, I made an educated guess: “Remote detonator, electronic.”

“Copy that,” Maxwell promptly replied.  “Stand-by for EMP.”

Electro-magnetic pulse.  It would destroy any electrical system operating in the vicinity.  “Negative.  Heart assist implants,” I argued bluntly, remembering that at least one of the representatives had listed the procedure under the medical conditions each attendee was required to report.

“Shit.”  Without bothering to disconnect our call, he made contact with his undercover husband, “Tris.  We need a short-range signal jammer on a mic amp.  Stage, center of the table.  Grid D-8.”

I said nothing as Maxwell communicated the situation to his spouse.  I could not hear Barton’s response, but at that moment, I had other concerns.

Wilhelm had managed to intercept the intruder, blocking her path.  Due to the obstacle that the man’s bulk created, I could not see what was happening or being said, but suddenly, he leapt back.  I saw a black device of some sort in her outstretched hand.

A gun?

I cued the Preventers’ earwick channel and initiated the alert as I witnessed the altercation from a frustrating distance.

With the woman’s arm sweeping through nothing but empty air, Wilhelm executed a timely push, thrusting her against the cherry wall paneling.  She ducked under his arm and shoved her way into the crowd.  I did not see the device in her hand.

“Taser,” Maxwell informed me.  “Wilhelm’s picking it up.” 

That wasn’t all he was doing.

“Schbeiker, stay with the foreign minister.  Wilhelm has a Taser,” I managed to spit out as I lunged after the blonde woman.  She was moments away from the auditorium’s side exit.  I was the closest agent.  If I didn’t reach her…  No.  I _would._   I would not accept another failure!

“I see a cell phone,” Schbeiker reported.  “No Taser.”

A cell phone?  I couldn’t afford to look away from my query to check.

Schbeiker added, “He’s dialing.”

I took two more swift steps toward the suspect, dodging one slowly moving body and then a second.  I was less than three meters away and closing fast.

In the next instant, a roaring blast rocked the building, overwhelming my ears and plunging me into silence.  Lights exploded and the floor rippled underfoot.  In that instant, the entire room was plunged into smoke and darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next part is all written and ready to go... feedback, reviews, comments, begging, blatant flattery, and flat-out threats willing. Hint, hint.
> 
> Side note: the "EMP" bit... looks like my Martix is showing. *wink wink*


	8. A Knight in Shining Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell grinned. Widely. The God of Death was in his smile. “I ain’t gonna kill ‘im.”

Silence, shocked silence reverberated through the thickening air.  Someone coughed.  There was a startled, disbelieving shriek and then the screams started.

“Schbeiker!  Status!” I barked as I fought the suddenly frantic tide of humanity pushing me away from my quarry.  I could not see the blonde woman in the gloom, could see nothing beyond the flash of white lapel handkerchiefs and shirt collars whose bearers shoved and jostled me.  I had seconds – at most – to intercept the suspect before she disappeared into the chaos.

“I can’t find the Foreign Minister!” my partner reported, her tone strung tight with barely restrained panic.

A flashlight clicked on in the distance.  Then another and another.  The voices of Preventer agents gradually gained in strength as they urged people toward the exits.

I was out of time and I knew it, but I continued onward. 

At last, my hands pressed against the door.  I slammed the lever to release the lock.  The door swung open a mere inch and then stopped.  I shoved my shoulder against it.  The sound of screeching metal responded.  Damn this day to hell.  She’d toppled some sort of cabinet over the threshold.

Gnashing my teeth at my own uselessness, I turned back, waving panicking, nearly-blind people onward toward the next exit.  “Schbeiker!  Where are you?”

“The hell if I know.”

I gave her my location and a moment later, she stumbled into me.

“Help me with this door,” I shouted over the bedlam.

“We need to find Relena.”

“It’s pointless in this chaos!”  If the Foreign Minister was fine, then she was being herded toward an unaffected area of the estate with all the others.  Our colleagues would take care of the evacuation.  If she were elsewhere, then Maxwell and Barton had a much better chance of reacquiring and guarding her until we could intercept them.  “The assassin is escaping.”

“On three,” she commanded.

With our combined weight, the door budged open a mere two hand-widths.  “I’m going in,” she told me, wiggling past me and I was put in mind of the sofa she’d stolen from me mere hours ago.

“I’m going around,” I informed her.

“Gimme a shove, Chang!”

My eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the dusty darkness.  I groped like a blind man until my hands found her hip and derriere and I pushed.  In the next moment, she was through the doorway.

“Can you clear the door?” I called.

“Let me—just a—this cabinet is—omph!  Dammit, no!”

“I’m going around!” I repeated and took off for the exit directly behind the stage.  There were few people remaining at the back of the room and I knew I would be able to cover more ground if I moved in that direction.  I scrabbled at the decorative tapestries until I saw the exit sign glowing softly through the cloud of plaster dust still raining down from the ceiling.  I barreled through the doorway, turned the corner toward Schbeiker’s position, and toppled over something lying in the middle of the hall.

No, not _something,_ I ascertained as I pushed myself off of the obstacle.  It was _someone._

I leaned back on my heels, putting my back to the nearest wall, held my breath and listened.  I sensed no movements in the darkness.  I angled my cell phone and its lighted screen toward the body.

The sleeve of a staff uniform was illuminated in the faint glow.  I followed it up to a shoulder, then a jaw, and finally a head of brown hair.

“No…” I breathed, moving closer until I encountered Barton’s distinctive bangs.  His eyes were closed in unconsciousness rather than death, thank all that is sacred.  I pressed my fingers to the side of his neck and leaned bodily against his back.  He had a pulse and he was breathing.

“Chang!  Status!” Schbeiker hollered.  She was close enough that I could hear her without the benefit of the earwick.

“Over here!”

I turned my cell phone around and hit redial.  “Cross!” I barked.

“Wu!  I’ve gotcha on infrared.  Don’t worry about Relena.  Tris got her outta there.  I’m standing by for a status update.  Your suspect still looks alive.  Congrats, man.”

“Susp—?”  I blinked.  Oh dear ancestors, he didn’t know.  “No, Cross.  I’m with Armstrong.”

A beat of silence that seemed to stretch out for an entire light year swallowed the moment.

“…what.”

“I’m with Armstrong,” I repeated as Schbeiker skidded to a halt, bumping into my upraised hand which prevented her from trodding on our fallen comrade.

“No.”  I heard the soft click of keys being struck in rapid succession as Maxwell accessed the video feed in the areas beyond the power outage.  “No!  Stop fucking with me, Wu!  He’s right here he’s— _shit!  Shit shit shit!  That fucking bastard!”_

“Who?!” I demanded, turning on the phone’s speaker for Schbeiker’s benefit as she crouched down and started looking over the man at our feet with the aid of her flashlight.

“It’s gotta be Wilhelm,” he ground out.  “That sonuvabitch I’m gonna—!”  Whatever Duo was going to do to the man was bitten back and swallowed down into his churning gut.  “Lemme talk to Tris,” he ordered.

My fingers were still pressed to the man’s jugular.  “He is unconscious,” I reported.

“The _fuck_ you say!  Jesus fucking—!”  I listened as Cross gulped in a breath.  He suddenly pleaded, “How is he?  Is he OK?  Is he breathing?  Oh, Jesus—”

“Yes, he’s breathing, but he’s down.  I’m not sure whether he’s injured.”

“OK, OK, OK, I’ll just—”

“We need to know where Relena is.”

“OK, OK, I’m on it, just stay with him.  Please.”

“He’s fine, JC,” Schbeiker consoled him.  The beam from her flashlight illuminated two small marks bracketing a short swath of reddened skin.  “He’s been Tasered in the back of the neck.”

“That fucking—”

“Relena’s status!” I barked.

A deep breath came through the phone’s speaker.  It almost felt as if Maxwell stirred the air here on the other end of the connection.  “She’s not in the immediate vicinity.  Look, it’s gonna take me a little time to go through all the vid feeds.  You gotta move Tris for me.  Take care of him.  Please, guys.  _Please.”_

“We’re bringing him up to you,” I promised, glancing at Schbeiker for confirmation.  Her face was drawn, her lips compressed into a single taut line, but she nodded.  Clearly, she’d reasoned that the most expeditious way to continue the search for the foreign minister was to acquiesce to Maxwell’s demands.  Besides which, it was imperative that Barton not be seen.

I returned my phone to my pocket and looped an arm under Barton’s chest.  Schbeiker took up position on his other side and, with a shared nod, we both lifted.  As Barton’s head rose off of the floor, he shifted – rolling a shoulder and giving his head a slight shake.  Which only made him lurch forward on a groan and retch, nearly vomit.

“Be still,” I commanded.

“Relena Darlian—!” he gasped around what might have been a second wave of nausea.

“Cross is on it.  Come with us.”  As neither of those statements had an appreciable motivational effect, I added, “He needs you.”

At this, Barton reached out his arms, one to me and another toward Schbeiker in a mute demand for assistance.  We hauled him to his feet and I braced myself under his weight.  I started moving forward.

“No,” he gasped, gesturing weakly in the opposite direction.  “This way.”

“Armstrong,” I scolded, “your brain has been fried.”

“This way,” he insisted, leaning away as if he was actually going to pull himself along the walls by his fingernails toward some unknown destination.

I sighed.  Even if he was insisting on taking the scenic route, we would probably save time just by following his lead.

I nodded for Schbeiker to do an about-face and we three stumbled down the gloomy corridor until Barton suddenly stopped for no apparent reason whatsoever.  I braced myself for a visit by the man’s breakfast.

“Left,” he rasped, and to my surprise, I discovered a narrow, clearly forgotten and decades-old service staircase recessed into the wall.  The dilapidated steps creaked under our combined weight, bowing dangerously.  There was every reason to believe they were rotten through and through, but we attained the second floor landing before the wood splintered and cracked.

Emerging from what had been incorrectly labeled as a supply closet door, both Schbeiker and I recognized this hall.  We maneuvered our burden quickly, forcing him to focus on not tripping over his own feet.

This time, I did not call or knock before banging into the room.  Maxwell glanced up from behind the monitors and I was struck by the look on his face: the fury that made his eyes burn, the fear that pulled his skin taut over his bones, the desperation that gritted his teeth.

“I’m right here, baby,” he said so softly that I could not begin to reconcile it with the pure inferno he embodied.

Schbeiker and I deposited Barton in the side room upon the sofa within.  “I’ll get some water,” I informed both everyone and no one.

When I stepped out of the bathroom with a cup of water in one hand and a cold, wet washcloth in the other, I saw that Maxwell had squirmed onto the couch, contorting himself around his spouse, gently brushing Barton’s long bangs back from his eyes.  Barton’s expression was nearly as pained as Maxwell’s as he took one careful, shallow breath after another.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, baby,” I heard the man murmur.  “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Shh,” Barton soothed him, one hand curling around Maxwell’s arm with bruising strength.

I presented the cup and washcloth to Maxwell, only waiting long enough for the man to take them from my hands before I hastened to the other room to consult with Schbeiker.  She was bracing herself above the table behind the monitors, watching the video footage Maxwell had managed to put together in the few minutes it had taken us to extract Barton from the hall behind the auditorium.

The entire interior portion of the south wing was in darkness, but Maxwell had managed to track two figures illuminated under the infrared lens.  A taller, broader form was leading – sometimes jerking and dragging – a second alongside it.  The label on this camera indicated that it was located near an emergency stairwell.  The vid feed switched automatically when they disappeared behind a door and, in the next instant, I saw Manning Wilhelm hastily pulling a clearly resistant Relena Darlian down the stairs.  The lights were still operational in this area, so there was absolutely no doubt about it.  Ten minutes previously, Wilhelm had been in the process of abducting the foreign minister.

She’d done her best to slow him down and, failing that, make it easier for her whereabouts to be tracked.  Whenever Wilhelm looked away, she reached up and yanked out strands of her own hair, letting them flutter to the floor.  I noticed then that she was no longer wearing her wristwatch or earrings.  Clearly, those had been left behind at other locations.  She kept her shoes, however, and it was an intelligent decision; the high heels would be dangerous weapons if Wilhelm’s violence became focused upon her.

Our last glimpse of the foreign minister was as Wilhelm dragged her through a seemingly random door.  Relena apparently recognized it, however, and fought against the man vehemently.  His greater strength and madness gave him the upper hand and both disappeared from the hall.

“Where does this lead?” I asked Schbeiker as the door on the screen swung shut in silence.

“To the bomb shelter eighty-six meters beneath the Peace Building,” she answered tightly.

“Access routes?”

“One.  Stairs.  It’s completely open with surveillance that goes directly into the rooms at the bottom.  Separate power source.  JC already checked—”  She nodded to a small window open on the second monitor.  “—and it’s operational.  Wilhelm will see us coming.”

I scowled.

“Which is why,” she continued after a steadying breath, “I should be the one to go.  As you said before, I’m not a damsel or an enemy.”

I shook my head.  The chance was too great that she would merely give the man a second hostage.  “There may be another option.  Where is our other suspect?”

“JC’s facial recognition program is still running.”  She gestured to the second monitor.  “I’ve just checked with Nichol.  Everyone is on alert for a woman with shoulder-length blond hair, 5’6”, 60 kilograms.”

I didn’t doubt that Nichol would push his team and the other assigned agents past the point of what could be considered reasonable if for no other reason than to make me appear incompetent.  The thought could not have bothered me less; I was not concerned with where or to whom the accolades for a job well done went so long as the threat was stopped here and now.  Today.

Schbeiker continued, “We have a lead on the foreign minister’s whereabouts.  We have to focus on that.”

Yes, we did.  It was our official assignment, after all.  The director would expect us to see to the foreign minister’s safety first regardless of whatever else.

I stood and moved to the threshold of the other room, dreading what quiet moment I might be interrupting.  Glancing around the edge of the doorjamb, I was surprised to find Barton curled up on Maxwell’s chest, his head tucked under the other man’s chin as Maxwell rubbed his back.  Both connecting and connected in perfect silence.

I cleared my throat.

“Yeah?” Maxwell rasped without opening his eyes.  His arms tightened around Barton’s shoulders.

As I was certain both of them had heard every word of my conversation with Schbeiker, I cut directly to the objective they would be able to assist us with: “How do we get into the bomb shelter?”

“Air ducts,” Maxwell told me in that same soft tone.

“I need to see the blueprints.”  He and Barton undoubtedly had a copy on hand.

Maxwell’s eyes squeezed shut even more tightly.  He turned his face away from the door as if denying my existence, denying that he was needed, denying that his husband occupied a lower priority than the situation we were facing.

Before Maxwell could attempt to shoo me away with a rude gesture, Barton stirred.  “Go,” he said.  “Relena needs you now.”

Maxwell drew his husband even closer.  With a messy inhalation and shining eyes, he acquiesced, “OK, baby.”  He caressed Barton’s hair as he eased himself off of the couch.  “But I’m not leavin’ you here alone.”

It wasn’t just a point of non-negotiation.  He was upholding a vow.

“There are two vents,” Maxwell explained almost rudely as he strode out of the room.  I lingered in the doorway, wondering if Barton truly was all right.  I had certainly never seen the man this incapacitated before.  Perhaps this was what he’d looked like when Maxwell had discovered him after the accident, before the final battle at the end of the war?

“Watch his back,” Barton quietly ordered, his expression pinching from what was undoubtedly a skull-cleaving headache.

“You have my word.”

I rejoined Maxwell just as he called up a 3-D illustration of the building’s substructure on the first monitor.  There were indeed two vents.  One kinked and twisted on its way down.  The shape was far more conducive to infiltration, but I could clearly see that neither Maxwell nor myself would fit.  Perhaps seven or eight years ago, before nature and Preventer training had turned us into the men we were now.  Yes, 15-year-old Gundam pilots – thin, lithe, and expendable – could have navigated that air duct, but not us.  Not now.

The second vent was wide enough for the both of us to make our way side-by-side, but it was completely vertical for every one of those eighty-six meters.

“When was the last time you repelled?” Maxwell asked in a tone that had been sharpened by his toothy grin.  I knew that smile.  I’d seen it before.  And I knew immediately what it meant.

I put that knowledge aside for the moment.  There was nothing I could do to counter it until I had enough leverage to guarantee his cooperation.

“The Oswell Case,” I replied, doing my utmost to smother a flinch.  If it hadn’t been for Yuy’s impressive reflexes, the medical examiner would have been scrapping what was left of my charred remains off of the electrified subway rails with a spatula.  “I’m calling for reinforcements,” I announced, retrieving my phone, already anticipating the number I would call – a number I’d assumed I would have little use for in a professional capacity.

Maxwell growled, “Get both of them.”

In response to my expectant look, he elaborated, “Just in case Hilde gets orders to report front and center.  I am _not_ leaving Tris here undefended.”

Even with the pounding headache from the Taser, I was sure that Barton could handle himself, but that wasn’t what Maxwell had meant.  And if I were in his place, it wouldn’t have been what I would have meant, either.  This wasn’t about a lack of confidence in Barton; this was about Maxwell doing his duty to his partner.

I nodded and placed the call.

It connected and the recipient answered with a grunt.  I outlined the situation in less than ten words and hung up.  “They’re on their way.”

“I’ll get our gear.”

Maxwell disappeared into the private room once again, this time nudging the door partially shut behind him.  I returned to Schbeiker’s side.  She was still scouring each and every image that flashed across the second monitor, determined to find our female suspect.

I didn’t ask Schbeiker if she would rather be the one to go after the foreign minister.  I already knew the answer to that.  I also knew why she could _not_ be the one to go.  There were two very good reasons keeping her at a distance from the encounter.  First and foremost, she was the senior agent; I would be relying on her for both intelligence and remote support.

“Keep Nichol out of our way,” I said.

She gave me a curt nod.  “Bring her back alive and well, Wufei.”

“I will.”

There was a knock at the door.  I answered it.  Yuy stormed across the threshold with Winner in his wake and demanded succinctly, “Where?”

I was unsurprised that he and Winner had eluded the evacuation procedure as quickly as they had.  “Bomb shelter.  Cross has our gear.”

I offered Winner a nod of truce and preceded them to the side room.  “Cross, backup is here.”

“Come on in, guys!”

His normal sing-song was subdued and husky.  I pushed the door fully open and faced the picture of misery Barton presented as he huddled on one end of the couch, a generic blanket now wrapped around his shoulders.

“Oh, no,” Winner breathed, pushing past me.  “What happened?”

Maxwell extended an arm to halt his progress.  There was a gun in his hand.  With the barest glance, Winner took it.  He did not check to make sure it was loaded.  That would be best done out of my presence.

“It’s just a headache so far, Q, but if he passes out or pukes or starts seeing pink elephants or—”

“I think I’ve got the gist of it,” Winner remarked just as Barton grumbled, “I’m right _here,_ JC.”

“Yes,” his husband agreed.  “Yes, thank God, you are.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Winner assured Maxwell.

Barton muttered a string of obscenities under his breath.

“Here,” Maxwell said, passing a climbing harness, gear pack, and length of rope to Yuy and then a second bundle to myself.  He then reached for a third and started sorting out the harness, clearly intending to strap himself into it.

Barton lifted a hand from beneath the blanket and gestured Maxwell closer.  Maxwell didn’t offer a single roll of his eyes in protest.  He moved toward the edge of the sofa and Barton maneuvered his husband so that the man was standing between his spread knees.  Maxwell handed over his climbing gear and held onto Barton’s shoulders as the he stepped into the pelvic harness.  Barton wordlessly guided it up his legs and clinched it around his hips.  His hands were steady but his movements were sharp, almost angry.  Maxwell said not a word in protest even though I suspected that the harness was buckled too tightly around Maxwell’s chest.

As Yuy and I were finishing up with our own respective preparations, Barton pulled his husband close for a soft kiss on the lips.  Maxwell sighed as they parted and Barton’s hand curled around the back of his husband’s neck, angling Maxwell’s head down so that he could press his lips gently and with obvious devotion to Maxwell’s forehead.

“You promised,” Barton reminded him.  What that promise was, I did not know, but Maxwell clearly did.

“An’ I’m gonna keep it.”  They looked into each other’s eyes.  Maxwell held perfectly still – waited with infinite patience – until, with a long exhalation, Barton released his grip and let him go.

I had been wrong about the chess game between the two of them.  Maxwell may have launched the initial volley, but it was Barton who had drawn the other man in; Trowa Barton had captured Duo Maxwell, body, heart, and soul.

I would not underestimate either of them again.

Schbeiker said nothing as the three of us departed.  Nothing needed to be said.  She would report any information to me that was pertinent via a sub-channel on the earwick and vice versa.  Winner would shoot-to-kill anyone who tried to approach Barton, and Barton would chop up whatever was left with his knife.

I flinched at the image.  Dearest ancestors, Maxwell had somehow corrupted me with his penchant for vile imagery.

We encountered no one in the halls between Barton and Maxwell’s base of operations and the corridor where the service entrance to the air ducts was located.  As we neared our objective, I asked, “Do you and Armstrong always carry an extra climbing harness?”

“Spare parts,” he answered, thumbing one taut strap of his own harness.  He reached for the seam of a metal access panel.  “Grab the other side, Gerald.”

Yuy complied.

The panel popped off with a quiet dimple of sound.  We each took out our magnetic anchors and started tying rope around cinches and hooks.

“Cross,” I said when he moved as if to duck into the yawning blackness of the vent, “leave Wilhelm and whatever weapons in his possession to me.”

Maxwell grinned.  Widely.  The God of Death was in his smile.  “I ain’t gonna kill ‘im.”

“Just make the bastard wish he were dead,” Yuy either elaborated or agreed.  I could not be completely sure which was the case.

“Cross—” I began, already irritated by the necessity of having to repeat myself.

He held up his gloved hands.  “No marks, guys, I swear.  The Taser, if he’s still got it, is evidence.  I comprende, OK?  Now let’s get this damn show on the road!”

“Cross,” I said yet _again._   “You are in charge of creating a distraction.  That and _only_ that.  A power failure, if possible.”

He snorted.  “That’s my specialty, doncha know?”

“Yukitani,” I continued, turning toward Yuy, “you’ll release the ventilation grate and—”

“Stand by for you to deploy,” he cut in, clearly irritated.

He had absolutely no reason to be.  I was the Preventer agent.

I returned my attention to Maxwell, determined to eke a vow out of the man before we began our descent.  Ancestors knew it was the only way I could be sure he’d behave himself.  “I am the agent-in-charge of this situation—”

“And responsible for the condition of the suspect,” he dutifully droned.  Then, with a lackadaisical shrug, he casually observed, “But it’s not your fault if he forgets to tie his shoelaces and trips down a couple steps.”

“You will not lay a hand on him,” I decreed.

“No hands, huh?  OK, yeah, that’ll make this even more interesting.”

“Cross, you will cut the power and then return to the air duct and remain there.  Is that understood?”

With that, his lips stretched wide, showing off his teeth, and I was given an unrestricted view of Maxwell’s formidable fury.  “You saw what that dickwad did to Tris.  You are _not_ gonna deny me this.”

I argued, “What if it was Relena and not Wilhelm?”  The attack had happened just after the power had failed.  It had taken the lens filters crucial seconds to start transmitting infrared images.  There may have been a struggle in the dark during which the Taser had been dropped, found, picked up, and used by either Wilhelm or his desperate hostage.

Maxwell’s bloodthirsty grin didn’t so much as twitch.  “It’s still Wilhelm’s fault.  The asshole deserves to have his bowels turned inside out and wrapped around his pencil-neck throat.”

“Aromatic,” Yuy remarked, sounding vaguely impressed.

It was imperative that I recruit him to side with me and thereby break the stalemate with Maxwell.  We were wasting time.  “Either talk or beat some sense into this moron,” I snarled.

Yuy shook his head at me.  “Wilhelm is armed and dangerous.  You need someone to back you up.”

“With the power out and these night vision goggles, I will have more than sufficient means of subduing and placing the imbecile under arrest.”

“Dude, this guy is one crazy shithead.  He took Tris down.  Think about that for a second, here.”

I did.  Barton’s experience as a mercenary should have given him the upper hand against a fop like Wilhelm.  I couldn’t even point to the fact that Barton wasn’t an active Preventer agent to rationalize the outcome of that encounter.  Maxwell and Barton were more active in ops than most active agents!  Though I had no proof of this, I knew without a doubt that it was true.  Yet, Wilhelm had managed to surprise and evade a man of considerable and deadly skill.

Perhaps Maxwell had a point; it would be foolish to enter that bunker without backup, even if I had the element of surprise.  I could use a partner to watch my back, and for obvious reasons, that person could not be Yuy; I could not ask Yuy, who was now a civilian, to play that role or the director really would take my badge.  It was bad enough that Maxwell might leave forensic evidence behind; still, he was in the employ of the Preventers.  In times of emergency any employee of the Preventers could be called upon to support an agent in an active investigation; it wasn’t illegal for him to assist me.  That did not mean that the director would be pleased, however.  Still, she would be even less pleased if Yuy’s DNA was found in that bunker.  No one with anything resembling intelligence would believe that it was due to the transfer of trace evidence.  Our previous partnership and the circumstances which placed us both in the same premises would damn us.

Rounding on Maxwell, I laid down the law, “You cannot kill, maim, or disfigure Wilhelm.  No hemorrhages or aneurisms.  He has to be able to walk out of that bunker and up the stairs under his own power and retain enough of his mental faculties to enter a plea at his preliminary hearing.  And,” I concluded, “he must not see you.  Either of you.”

Yuy crossed his arms over his chest, perhaps a bit miffed that I was imposing the same restrictions on both of them.

“Got it,” the primary target of my lecture responded with a smirk that could cut diamonds.  He was far too triumphant given the conditions he’d just agreed to and I was furious with myself for clearly leaving him a loophole of some kind, but I had no notion of what that might be.

“Let’s go,” I ground out.

“Waitin’ on you, pal,” Maxwell sang, swinging himself into the duct.  “Gimme a five minute head-start to make sure we don’t have any unpleasant surprises, then you guys come on down.  Just – whatever you do – don’t kick the walls.  And keep your little tiff down to a whisper or all this is gonna be for nuthin’.”

Yuy glared at him.

I snorted out a breath in disgust.

Maxwell winked, settled his night vision goggles over his eyes, and slid into the abyss in perfect silence.

I turned my attention to double-and-triple-checking the knots I’d tied.

“Well?” Yuy demanded.

“What?”

“If you have something to say to me, let’s hear it now.”

“Very well.  If my rope should slip. I would appreciate a repeat performance of your response to the same situation during the Oswell Case.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that comes immediately to mind.”

“That’s a shame,” he said with a disgruntled look, “as you still don’t fully understand why I left the Preventers.”

I scoffed.  “Winner asked you.”

“Yes.  He asked _me.”_

“I am not the one who owes him a blood debt.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then _what_ exactly,” I snarled, “is it?”

Yuy studied me for a long moment, cataloging my disappointment, anger, and sense of betrayal.  “You need to talk to Quatre.”

I turned away.

“He has good reasons.”

“That he apparently did not feel inclined to share with me.”

“He thought you’d figure it out for yourself.”

I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Yuy shift into the air duct opening, bracing himself on the edge with his boot tread.  Maxwell’s requested five minutes were far from being up, but Yuy was clearly done spending them with me.

He informed me with an exasperated glare, “All your screwing around is pissing us off.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Get your shit together, Chang,” he ordered as he fit his own goggles in place.  “This isn’t about you or me or Quatre.  Take a step back and look at the big picture.”

With that, he fell back into the darkness with an easy motion. 

I stared at the empty air for a long moment, feeling the unmistakable sensation of shame beginning to warm me from within.  The big picture.  This wouldn’t be the first time I’d overlooked it.  Losing that first duel with Khushrenada had nearly destroyed me.  I’d nearly allowed it to destroy me.  For weeks, I’d refused to even acknowledge Altron’s existence, so convinced had I been that I was unworthy to pilot, to fight, to make even the slightest difference.  I couldn’t be doing the same thing to myself yet again, could I?

The answer came a heartbeat later: it was entirely possible that I was.

Closing my eyes, I bit out a curse.  When I opened them, I shook the coils of rope loose that I’d twisted around my aching hands in my distraction.  I moved toward the vent.  Checked the seal on my magnetic anchor one more time, and then I let myself sink into the gloom.

The night vision goggles were top of the line – lighter and more precise than the Preventer issue models – and I had to wonder how Maxwell and Barton could have afforded not one but three pairs on their combined salaries.  All of their equipment, in fact, was the highest quality.  How was it possible that they were so well-prepared?

I would interrogate them later, I decided, and began my descent.

Yuy was waiting two meters beneath my position.  I passed him in silence and, leaving a meter between us, he matched my pace.  I repelled slowly, carefully.  I had no interest in testing Yuy’s reflexes.  Besides which, reaching out and grabbing a slipping cable would likely tear right through the climbing gloves we were each wearing.  In the Oswell Case, once we’d reached solid ground, I’d noticed that his gloves had been shredded and his palms had been rubbed raw to the point of bleeding.

We both focused on moving soundlessly.  Somewhere beneath us, Maxwell was being equally quiet.  I looked down, but even with the excellent night vision goggles, I could see neither hide nor hair of the man.  I would never be able to reconcile the man’s unparalleled stealth abilities with his boisterous and obnoxious character.

Although, to be completely fair, he hadn’t been all that boisterous or obnoxious with his incapacitated husband, had he?

It should have bothered me that Maxwell had more than one face.  It should have made me wonder if his mind or motives were equally fractured.  It did not.  Maxwell was not needlessly complicated; he was as complicated as he needed to be.  All five of us were.

I clenched my teeth in order to forestall a sigh; yes, I would speak with Winner.

Our descent continued.  Down… down… down… as if we were Hell-bound.  The thought was not a comforting one.  I turned my attention to the rope in my hands and to the hostage who was, hopefully, still unharmed.

How much time did Relena have?  What was Wilhelm’s plan?  He couldn’t honestly think that he could keep her in the bunker indefinitely?  Though the term “bunker” suggested a single room of reinforced steel surrounded by concrete – a literal safe for holding human beings – this bunker was considerably more than that.  It was a compound in and of itself consisting of several rooms, including a dormitory and dining hall.  Ideally, it could support two dozen people for more than thirty days.  Wilhelm did not have thirty days.  The foreign minister’s disappearance was sure to be noticed by the summit attendees within the hour if it hadn’t been already.

I considered what Schbeiker had managed to draw out of the man.  He saw himself as the Foreign Minister’s protector, her knight in shining armor.  Perhaps that was what this was; he’d chosen a defensible position and he fully expected whoever had planted the laser sight (or, the hidden camera, as Wilhelm mistakenly assumed) to come for his princess.

Yes, we had to assume that Wilhelm was preparing for a fight.  Possibly to the death.

Well, it had been a while since I’d found myself in a situation that required the unrestricted use of my training.  Unlike Maxwell, I did not relish the thought.  I stayed focused, trusting my instincts to guide me.  I would not fail the people who were counting on me.

I. Would. Not.  Fail. 

A tap on my ankle startled me. 

I looked down and found my left foot millimeters away from the very ventilation grate that I’d assigned to Yuy, but it was already ajar.  My boots were dangling out of the air duct.  The dislodged grate knocked against the side of my leg as I twisted to get a better view of the room below.

Where, I wondered, was Maxwell?

But of course I knew the answer to that question.

My hands gripped the rope so tightly the tear-resistant fabric of my climbing gloves creaked.

And then I heard a sound that stopped my heart.

The _crack!_ of a gunshot.

 _The fool!_   I was undoubtedly glowing in the infrared thanks to my sudden, incandescent rage.  Maxwell had opened the vent himself, cut the power, and sought out Wilhelm rather than wait for us.  Somehow I was not surprised that, despite the conditions I’d outlined, Maxwell was still hell-bent on avenging his husband.

I reached up to touch Yuy’s ankle, signaling for him to continue down and past me. 

_Crack!_

He lifted the grate up and out of the way with single-minded efficiency of motion and metal focus, and then braced himself flat against the side of the shaft.

_Crack!_

I repelled, landed, disconnected, drew my weapon, and scanned the immediate vicinity.  I was in a utility room.

I did not see Maxwell, Wilhelm, or the Foreign Minister.

_Crack!_

I moved quickly to the nearest door.  It was ajar.  I toed it open.  The dining hall was beyond.  Tables and benches were arranged with military precision.  I ducked down to check beneath them.  Maxwell was not waiting for me here, either.  There was no one else in the room.

_Crack!_

With sound of the fifth bullet being fired, I was able to pinpoint its source and was sprinting toward the left-hand door.

_Ancestors!  Please—!_

I refused to imagine either Maxwell or Relena lying in a pool of blood.  I was not too late.  I was not!

Staying low, I spun into the room.  It was a command headquarters with desks and computers.  The door to the right was shut.  The door to the left was not.

I glided with speed toward the threshold and leaned forward just far enough to ascertain the position of the room’s occupants.  Wilhelm was armed, standing with his back to the bank of dark surveillance monitors, peering frantically into the pitch black darkness.  The revolver in his hands was steady as he pointed it toward his eleven o’clock, then his two, then nine, then five…

I spotted Duo crouched low on Wilhelm’s six.  He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it with a flick of his wrist.  It made a soft sound, like rubber boot heel connecting with the floor.  Wilhelm turned and fired.  The muzzle flare lit up the room like a bolt of lightning and I had to shut my eyes against the flash, amplified dozens of times by the night vision goggles.

There was a gasp and whimper.  I looked back at the two men and found Wilhelm enfolded in a deadly embrace.  Maxwell pressed up against the man’s back, his arms lifted and hands curled at the back of Wilhelm’s neck.

Wilhelm’s trigger finger jerked, but the hollow _click!_ of an empty chamber was the only result.  The six-shooter was empty.  The gun drooped, wobbled, and dropped, landing with a clatter that made the following silence feel infinite.  Wilhelm was shaking.  The scent of urine reached me just as I heard Maxwell’s rasping whisper.

“I am the God of Death, Manning Wilhelm.  I sentence you to eternal darkness and the black fires of Hell.”

I felt a shiver race through me.

Wilhelm whispered.  “Wha—what—?”

“You are dead, Manning Wilhelm.  And now you’re _mine.”_

“No… no!  No-no-no-no-no—”

Maxwell’s whisper was terrible, but his hands were steady.  It was then that I realized how Maxwell had subdued Wilhelm – the thin wire of a garrote was wrapped around the man’s throat.

“Hm, yes.  You’ll scream nicely,” Maxwell continued and I saw his fingers tighten.

And then Wilhelm did scream.

 _Enough._   “Preventers!” I barked.  “Get down on the floor with your hands behind your head!  NOW!”

Maxwell held on, his fingers twitching, and hissed, low and venomous, “I’ll be back for you, Manning Wilhelm.  No one escapes Death.”

He released the garrote and shoved Wilhelm to the floor.  Wilhelm scrambled to put as much distance between himself and his unknown assailant as possible. 

“Put your hands on your head!” I ordered a second time.

Maxwell took one step in his direction.

“Preventers!” I furiously reminded him.  It had no effect.  Maxwell drew back one booted foot.

The sound of the steel toe connecting with Wilhelm’s unmentionables was sickening.  The man gasped, collapsed, and vomited on the floor.

In the next instant, Maxwell brushed past me.  He said not a word as he left me to disarm and handcuff the wheezing-bawling-screaming perpetrator on the urine-and-vomit-smeared floor.

How typical of Maxwell to leave a mess for someone else to clean up.


	9. The Path of Enlightenment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know it’s going to get in the way of your sidearm, but I would really like a hug.”

“Relena!” I called softly, spotting the huddled form of the Foreign Minister crouched in the dark, under the desk of the office space just off the surveillance room.  Either she or Wilhelm had had the presence of mind to remove her from the scene of the confrontation.  My relief was the only thing preventing me from shouting.

When she didn’t move, I tried again, using a form of address she was far more likely to associate with me rather than her abductor, “Foreign Minister.  It’s Agent Chang.  Are you injured?”

“No,” she informed me, her voice creaking like a dusty teeter-totter.  She cleared her throat once, twice.  “No, I’m fine.  Manning?”

“I’ve placed him under arrest.  You are safe.  Come on out.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“Would you like some assistance?”

She held out a hand in my general direction.  “Yes, please, Wufei.”

Holstering my weapon, I crossed the room slowly and with deliberately loud footsteps so that she could track my progress.  “I’m here,” I offered, “reaching for your hand now.”  And then her clammy fingers were wrapped around mine.  “Watch your head,” I murmured, placing my other hand on the top of her head to guide her out from beneath the desk.

She drew a shaky breath.  “I know it’s going to get in the way of your sidearm, but I would really like a hug.”

Without a word, I guided her closer and wrapped my arms around her.  Hers went around my chest and squeezed.  Apparently, the foreign minister made time to work out.  There was no other explanation for her formidable, vice-like grip.

I cued my earwick mic and reported in.  “Suspect secure.  The foreign minister has been reacquired.”

“Let me talk to her,” Schbeiker demanded.

As the foreign minister released her hold and stood back, I lifted the earwick from my own ear and said, “Talk to Hilde.”  I brushed my fingers over her ear in the darkness so she’d know to anticipate the earwick.  I fitted it in place and then curled my fingers around the foreign minister’s elbow.

“Hilsie?” she gasped.  There was a pause.  “No, no, he didn’t—  No, nothing.  He was trying to keep me safe is all.”

I unclipped the small flashlight from my belt, clicked it on, and handed it over.  She squeezed my arm in thanks, and then I left the room.

Wilhelm was still lying on the floor.  He was curled up in a ball, whimpering.  I could only image the agony.  Which I did.  I imaged it with great relish.  I almost wished I’d had the privilege of delivering the blow.  This certainly matched the physical pain Barton had experienced.  I could only hope that Maxwell had instilled the fear of the unknown into this piece of human waste.  An emotional pain equal to that of his victim’s.

An eye for an eye.

The reminder of Maxwell’s role had me scanning the room.  I spotted the small object Maxwell had tossed with the intent of directing Wilhelm’s final shot away from his position.  I picked it up.  It was a small travel-sized bottle of liquid.  I opened the cap and sniffed.  Alcohol.  Of course.  I located the abandoned Taser in the armory that Wilhelm had ransacked and carefully cleaned the contact points.  I owed Barton and Maxwell that much.

I then returned to the utility room.  Reversing the power outage was a simple matter of flipping the breaker switches back to “on.”  I squeezed my eyes shut and removed the goggles.  Once my eyes adjusted, I regarded the still-open vent.  My climbing rope dangled down and coiled on the floor.  Maxwell and Yuy were gone as if they’d never been.  I thought of the small container of alcohol.  It was in my gear pack.  I would have to dispose of it before (or if) I was required to hand over my gear for testing.

“Agent Chang?”

At the foreign minister’s call, I returned to the side room where I’d found her.  “Yes?”

“Agent Schbeiker would like to speak to you.”

I accepted the earwick and replaced it in my own ear.  “Chang,” I said.  This time, she didn’t ask me to prove it.

“We need to discuss extraction.”

“Send a team down to secure the scene and remove the suspect.  I’ll bring the foreign minister up after they arrive so she can give a statement.”

“Good.”  That single word released a blast of pressure that I could sympathize with.  “Good work, Chang.  Who knew your little reconn. would turn into a rescue?”

Ah, so that’s how we would be handling it.

She signed off, “I’ll see you in ten, boy-o.”

“What’s wrong with Manning?” the foreign minister inquired, leaning around me to peer into the next room.

She would undoubtedly think that I had been the one to crush the man’s private parts; there was no one else here, after all, and I couldn’t be sure that she’d heard Maxwell’s terrible grating whisper.  She’d probably been covering her ears against the ringing blast of each gunshot.

I arched a brow at her.  “Really, Foreign Minister Darlian.  I’m aware of your support for total pacifism, but even you must be familiar with what a shoeprint between the legs looks like?”

She blinked at me.

“Nice work, by the way,” I congratulated her.

“Was it?”

“He deserved it.”

She snorted softly.  “Yes.  Yes, he did.”  Her gaze shifting once more to Wilhelm, she mused, “I guess I don’t know my own strength.”

“Adrenaline,” I supplied helpfully.

“That must be it.”

Reinforcements arrived with Schbeiker leading the charge.  The following twenty minutes unfolded at a blistering pace with which I was familiar: secure the scene, remove the suspect, record preliminary statements.

“Who took Wilhelm down with a kick to the nadsack?” Schbeiker asked, lifting a brow in the foreign minister’s direction.

Relena drew herself up.  “I think I’m entitled to defend myself.” I silently applauded her haughty tone and misleading words.  It was a shame Maxwell couldn’t be here to appreciate it.

“We’ll need you to come to Preventers HQ to sign an official statement,” I dutifully droned.  As I did so, I palmed the small bottle of alcohol and slid it into Schbeiker’s jacket pocket.

The foreign minister’s gaze flickered down, catching the transfer, but she showed no reaction whatsoever.  “I understand.”

Indeed she did.  Relena Darlian understood what was required precisely – we all did – and we worked in concert to ensure that everything appeared precisely as it should.

“Any word from Nichol on the female suspect?” I asked.

Schbeiker shook her head.  “Surveillance techs are combing through _all_ angles now.”

I frowned.  That meant that Maxwell was back behind the monitors, possibly shoulder-to-shoulder with a squinting and disheveled Barton.

“I cleared the second floor, east wing myself,” Schbeiker added quietly and I nodded in understanding.  No doubt it had been Winner to do the brief but necessary honors.  At least Barton and Maxwell’s makeshift surveillance station wouldn’t be discovered by someone under Nichol’s command.  Or, ancestors save us, Nichols himself.

I forced my attention to the task at hand: no one would benefit from me wondering how and when the two of them would be making a quiet and invisible exit; they couldn’t go anywhere at the moment given the overwhelming numbers of active agents scouring the remainder of the estate.

“Come with me, Foreign Minister Darlian,” I began.

“Yes, I need to return to the summit immediately.”

_Oh, dearly beloved and departed—!_

“We have not identified or apprehended the individual who caused the explosion,” I reminded her curtly.

“I appreciate your concern, Agent Chang, but I’m not going to sit in a windowless room while I’m needed.  It’s my responsibility to restore order.”

Schbeiker just sighed.  “Come on, then.  But you might want to take your shoes off before we start up the stairs.”

“Good advice,” she agreed, levering her high heels off and gesturing for us to lead the way.

Lead we did.  At least until the foreign minister donned her heels once more and emerged from the Peace Building, at which point, she took a cleansing breath and straightened her shoulders.  Chin held high, she addressed the milling throng on the front lawn beyond the main entrance, “If I could have your attention, please, everyone!”

Awareness rippled through the crowd.  Faces lifted and camera lenses gleamed in her direction.  “First and foremost, please locate all your staff members.  If anyone is not present, please notify the nearest member of staff or a Preventer agent.”

I bit back a smirk: _all_ of the uniformed staff were Preventer agents.

“Please do this now if you haven’t already,” she directed and then waited as people rearranged themselves upon the lawn so that attendance could be quickly tallied.

I found no one missing.  I did not see any uninvited participants, either.  “The numbers match,” I murmured to Schbeiker.

“Yup, I got the same.”

Wherever our suspect had gone, she was not here.

“Is it safe to proceed?” the foreign minister asked Schbeiker.

“As safe as it ever is.  There don’t appear to be any immediate threats, ma’am,” she replied.

The foreign minister took a moment to weigh that before turning her attention to the attendees, “Ladies and gentlemen.  Our second order of business is to express our whole-hearted appreciation to the Preventers for their quick response.”

Foreign Minister Darlian lifted her hands and began an applause that swept through the assembly.  I was probably scowling.  The director would likely complain about that as well once she saw us on the afternoon news.

Regardless, I remained alert, scanning the crowd, looking into each face, searching for the woman who had not been Sylvia Noventa.

“And now we will honor our responsibilities to all the citizens of the Earth Sphere Unified Nation.  The purpose of this summit is to give each and every one of your groups the opportunity to be heard.  To do more than simply promote fairness in trade arrangements between the Earth and the colonies.  We are here to _ensure_ that all trade values are fair.”

She’d said much the same at the opening press conference, but I didn’t doubt that much of her message had been shoved aside by ego and grandstanding.

“I will now call for a vote,” the foreign minister announced, “on the Fair Trade Index of After Colony 202.  The values reflected in the table will be the new standard.  Transportation and import fees between resource suppliers on Earth and the colonies will be subsidized whenever needed to guarantee fairness.  I ask those of you with a vote to cast to indicate it now.  ‘For’ or ‘against.’”

With a wave of her hand to the nearest representative, it began.

I would not have been surprised to learn that it was the quickest session of congress in recorded history.

The following press conference was not so orderly or brief. 

“Foreign Minister!  Foreign Minster!  Ma’am!  What was the cause of the explosion we felt this morning?”

“Everyone, thank you for your concern.  The Preventers are conducting an investigation.  Please direct all your questions regarding this morning’s disruption and evacuation to their representatives.  I, for one, am very grateful for their presence.  The Preventers ensured that everyone remained safe.  And their continued support has enabled this summit to meet its aims.  The ESUN is indebted to this invaluable organization of elite men and women who work tirelessly to ensure peace and safety for all.”

Schbeiker and I stood beside the foreign minister through this question and more, listening as she responded to each inquiry and every challenge with sincerity.

I was at a loss to explain how she could have found the energy.

When she at long last stepped down, the press let her be, turning their attention to the bureaucrats who were eagerly waiting their turn for a slice of lime light. Though the press was blatantly dissatisfied with the lack of information regarding the power outage and evacuation, they did not harangue the attendees beyond inviting those present to share their observations and speculations.  After all, it would not do to aggravate potential interview subjects or earn themselves a ban from the Peace Building grounds.

As the politicians jostled for the chance to tell their tales, one separated himself from the rabble.

“Relena!” Winner greeted with quiet relief, striding across the lawn of the Peace Building to take her hand.  Yuy was, as ever, a step behind him.  “We lost you in the confusion inside.  I was very glad to see you made it through.”

“I’m all right,” she replied, cutting directly to the question he hadn’t articulated.  Then she reached for Yuy’s hand.  “Thank you.”

He didn’t acknowledge it in words.  He never did.  Yuy did not accept thanks for actions that he believed were right.  Nor did he apologize for them.

He did do something unexpected, however: he moved toward her and wrapped his arms around her without a word, putting himself between her and the crowd on the front lawn.  She leaned her head against his shoulder and smiled, allowing herself a moment.  I was surprised by Yuy’s show of affection, but then I heard the front entrance swing open one more time.

I looked up and watched as Wilhelm, upright and mobile… even managing a bit of dignity in each step, was marched over the threshold.  The medical team had apparently managed to relieve some of his pain.  His chin was held high and a jacket had been draped over his cuffed hands, covering the majority of the wet spot upon his trousers.  There was little that could be done to cover the vomit stain on his shirt sleeve.

It only took a moment for one cameraman to cue his pontificating counterpart and then – as if each and every news anchor were somehow wirelessly connected via satellite – they turned toward Wilhelm, moving in like sharks catching the scent of blood.

Wilhelm ignored their shouted questions.  The wind ruffled his filthy hair as he scanned the assembled evacuees.  He turned in our direction, a hard gleam in his eye.  It was a mad light, and it suddenly flared into an explosion of pure and utter hatred.

“You bastard!”  He lunged, his teeth bared in a snarl.

For an instant, I thought it was me who had drawn his unrestrained hostility, but no, he was looking beyond me, over my shoulder.  I did not have to turn and confirm with my own eyes that Relena was standing there in the protective circle of Yuy’s arms.  I understood then that Yuy had anticipated the arrival of Wilhelm and his entourage of agents and had deliberately placed himself between Relena and her abductor.

Her abductor, who had no concern whatsoever for the fact that both Winner and myself were present.  His quarrel was not with his arresting officer or a rising lobbyist who was twice as charming and memorable as Wilhelm himself.  No, his quarrel was with the man formerly known as Heero Yuy.

Wilhelm spat, “You piece of filth!  Get your hands off of _my Relena!”_

Schbeiker and I exchanged a look. 

There was more the man felt compelled to scream and screech, but none of us had any interest in indulging him with our attention.

Schbeiker approached the foreign minister as I reached for my car keys… and then recalled that I’d parked beside Schbeiker’s vehicle in the basement parking… which was currently cordoned off with crime scene tape.  As we herded the foreign minister to a safer distance, I utilized the earwick to demand a set of car keys.  To _any_ Preventer vehicle on the premises.

One of the junior agents jogged over to relinquish hers and lead us to the car.  I did not envy my colleagues who would be forced to deal with the excited press and even more agitated Wilhelm.

“Well, now we know who the bastard Gundam pilot is,” Schbeiker mused.

“Yes,” Yuy intoned flatly.  Both he and Winner had elected to assist us with escorting the foreign minister off of the lawn.

I glanced over as Winner reached up to rub the spot in the center of his own chest, fighting a pained frown.  “That is a lot of hatred,” he observed in a quiet voice that carried no further than the five of us.

Just then, the man screamed so loudly that we could hear his incomprehensible babble over the clamor of the news reporters.

“Holy cheese, Gerald,” Schbeiker coughed out.  “Wilhelm doesn’t just hate your guts – wha’ju do to him?”

“Nothing permanent.”

I drawled, “All evidence to the contrary.”

Relena reminded him, “Manning hated you from the moment you tore up my birthday party invitation.”

Yuy admitted, “And I beat him in fencing class.”

Relena hesitantly recounted yet another instance of Wilhelm’s pride being wounded, “And I asked you for a dance.”

“You _made_ me dance with you,” Yuy corrected.

“Yes, I did do that, didn’t I?”  She grinned cheekily.

Wilhelm continued to scream and rage, spittle flying, as he was led to a different vehicle.  I placed myself between him and the foreign minister.

The racket was hardly conducive to fond farewells, but just before the foreign minister took a seat in the back of our volunteered vehicle, she asked Yuy and Winner, “Will I see you before you head back to space?”

“Let’s have dinner,” Winner wheedled.

The foreign minister set a time and Winner locked it with a smile.

Schbeiker gestured for the foreign minister to get in the car and, miracle of miracles, the woman offered no protest whatsoever.

“Winner,” I began.

“Yes, Agent Chang?” he replied with genuine curtesy.

“I would like to speak with you before your departure if that is convenient.”

“Yes, Wufei.  We’ll have time.”  And if he didn’t, then I didn’t doubt that he would make it.

I slid behind the wheel.  I didn’t bother to wave as I pulled out into the road. Instead, I focused my attention on returning to headquarters by an indirect route.  I had not forgotten about the suspect who hadn’t been apprehended or her possible co-conspirators.  I was also considering an unpalatable version of events in which we arrived in the Preventers underground garage at the same time as Wilhelm’s escort.  I had no intention of allowing the foreign minister to cross paths with the man.  At least not until he was secured in either an interrogation room or lock-up.

The car ride was a silent one.  We were all simply too exhausted to think beyond the present moment let alone speak.

I wished with every fiber of my being that this could have been the end of it – I wished that the transport of Foreign Minister Darlian to Preventers HQ was the final task of our assignment.

Of course it wasn’t.

As Schbeiker escorted Relena Darlian to a meeting room, I procured something for our witness to eat from the cafeteria.  I spared a thought for Noin’s habit of offering food and drink to suspects, but quashed the niggling suspicion that my actions might be in any way similar.

Foreign Minister Darlian had just begun writing out her statement when there was knock on the door.  It was Nichol.

“The director wants all senior agents in the situation room.  STAT.”

It was a summons we could not refuse.  I surreptitiously passed my earwick to Relena before following Schbeiker out.

When my partner gave me a grateful look, I replied with a blank expression.

“As you are all aware,” the director was saying as we entered the largest meeting room in the building and took our seats among two dozen colleagues, “there was an explosion at the Peace Building this morning.  The source has been identified as a news van located near a power grid access node in basement parking.  Clearly, this was premeditated.  We have a suspect, Manning Wilhelm, in custody and have already discovered a call placed from this cellular phone to a burn phone moments before the explosion.  We suspect he triggered the detonation.”

The tension in the room strangled even the thought of whispering to a neighbor.  An attack had occurred in the Peace Building.  On Preventer territory.  In our jurisdiction.  In our very _presence._ The director did not have to tell us this was unacceptable.

“Several of you may be assigned to this investigation.  If you are, it will take priority.”

No one offered a protest.  I doubted anyone felt the need.  All of us were shocked and infuriated by this transgression.

“Also, it has been confirmed,” the director continued, “that there was an explosive device planted in the underside of the carpet of the Peace Building auditorium.  It has since been diffused and removed from the premises.  Our technicians are currently working to identify the precise compound.  The trigger appears to be attached to a rudimentary antenna wire.  With a signal amplifier such as the one collected from the head table on the auditorium stage, someone outside the building could have easily detonated the explosives.”

She gave us a long look.  “Given the scale of this circumvented attack, I believe it is safe to say that the Peace Building would be little more than a dusty crater if events had proceeded according to the terrorists’ plans.”

The assembled agents digested that in silence.

“It is imperative, now more than ever, that we identify the perpetrators.  We’ll begin with groups who have demonstrated animosity toward the office of the foreign minister, colony trade negotiations, and any chatter relating to an attack on the Peace Building itself.”

I raised my hand.

The director looked in my direction.  “Yes, Agent Chang?  You have something to contribute?”

I stood up and pointed out, “The carpet was installed before the summit.  The laser sight that warned us of an impending attack was discovered on the second day.”

“Yes,” the director agreed, “what is your conclusion?”

“We have to consider the possibility that the laser sight was a deliberate plant meant to provoke a response from the Preventers.  It’s possible that the purpose of the laser sight was not to single out an individual, but to draw us in.  The target may have been us.  All of us.  The Preventers organization itself.”

My warning was met with silence.  Not even Nichol jumped to his feet to rebut.  All of us were very aware of the fact that no assassination or attack had taken place _before_ the Preventers had unleashed their full force upon the summit.

“A fair point, Agent Chang.  Thank you.  We will investigate this angle as well,” Director Une announced.

I sat back down.  Schbeiker elbowed me.  When I glanced her way, she gave me a nod of acknowledgement.  Whatever came of this investigation, she would have my back.

I felt the knot of muscle between my shoulders unwind.  Not even meditation had been able to release tension this effectively.  In fact, I had been bearing this particular burden ever since Yuy had announced his intention to leave.

I was no longer alone.  No longer believed I was alone.  No longer felt alone.

Well.  That was rather enlightening; it appeared that I now had a partner whom I trusted.  It was an inconvenient time and place to be experiencing an epiphany, but I could not deny that it was true. 

I trusted Schbeiker. 

Though I had been referring to her as my partner prior to this, I felt the truth of it now: we were partners.

That didn’t mean I had any interest in venturing into her office any more frequently than absolutely necessary.

“What’s so difficult about stopping by my office before you head home, Chang?” she demanded as we neared the point in the hallway where we would go our separate ways, at least until the foreign minister finished her private briefing with the director and we could deliver her back to the Peace Building.

“There’s only so much chaos and horror a man can stand in a day,” I told her and she smirked.

“Fine.  I am a modern, independent woman, after all.  I’ll pick you up.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dinner.  Tonight.  My treat.”

I opened my mouth to object.  All I required was a hot shower, a comfortable bed, and twelve uninterrupted hours of blissful silence _._

“Shut up and take it like a man, Chang.”

“And you would be the expert on either of those subjects how?”

She walked away with a laugh.  I, with a smirk.

Completing the required field reports from our assignment took nearly twice as long as usual.  In my exhaustion, I nearly mentioned aspects of the past forty-eight hours that would have incriminated Barton and Maxwell as well as Schbeiker and myself for recruiting the assistance of two pilots who were technically on vacation.

“Let me see your field report,” I demanded when she knocked on my office door some time later.  I held out mine in a mute demand for her to check it.  She slumped into one of the visitors chairs across from my desk and we exchanged documents in silence.

I ticked phrases that seemed leading, unsubstantiated, or otherwise questionable.  She circled.  The reports rustled softly as we handed them back.

“Director’s office in fifteen?” Schbeiker checked.

“Yes.”  My report would be sufficiently edited by then.

It was.

We handed in our assignment summaries and collected the foreign minister.  Schbeiker drove.  The Peace Building looked normal from a distance, but I was well aware of the teams that were going over each and every crime scene in the estate.

“It is structurally sound?” the foreign minister asked of the damaged section.

“We won’t know for sure for a few days,” Schbeiker admitted, “but each wing of the building was designed to stand on its own.  You’ll be safe in the residential area.”

I was mildly surprised to find that the foreign minister’s rooms were unoccupied.  Forensics had evidently come and gone.  I brushed a smear of fingerprint power off of my hand as the front door swung open.

“Would you like some help cleaning up?” Schbeiker offered.  The bedroom door was closed, but I doubted the condition of the room had been altered since I’d last seen it.

“No, thank you.  I’ll take care of it myself.”

Schbeiker and I assigned a security detail to stand guard outside her apartment door and headed down to the basement to see about recovering our respective vehicles.  Shrapnel had left score marks in the paint and smatterings of dust coated an entire side of my car, but I was pleased to have it back.  I was less than enthusiastic about washing it, however.

Schbeiker’s car was also undamaged for the most part.  She handed off the keys to the vehicle we’d arrived in to a stranded junior agent and we headed for our respective modes of transportation.

“So,” Schbeiker drawled, “I’ll be over at six-thirty.”

“For what?”

“We’re doing this dinner thing, Chang.  Don’t give me that sourpuss face.”

“I wouldn’t if you’d _take_ ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Hah!  Good luck with that.  Remember – I know where you live.”

She proved it, ringing the bell at six-thirty precisely.  “No karaoke,” I ordered.

“Absolutely not,” she promised.

Resigning myself to a tedious evening of sickening one-on-one camaraderie, I slouched behind the wheel of my car and followed Schbeiker’s lead out into the evening traffic.

I was half-expecting an obnoxious combination of noise and stale cigarette smoke at some dive or other, but the taillights of Schbeiker’s car directed me right back to the Peace Building.

“Are we having a picnic under the stars?” I sneered.

“Nope,” she replied easily.  “Guess again.”

I sighed.  “This really isn’t necessary—” I began, suddenly tired of the game we’d been playing for the past three days.

“It is, Wufei,” she quietly interjected.  “It really is.  Humor me.  Please.”

With a second sigh, I allowed her to usher me into the building, though the grand foyer and up the staircase to the third floor in the north wing.  We stopped outside the foreign minister’s apartment.  Schbeiker didn’t bother knocking.  She reached out and opened the door.

Within the room, three people looked up from the dining table.

“Yukitani,” I greeted.  “Winner.  Foreign Minister Darlian.”

Thankfully, she didn’t remind me that I’d managed to call her by her given name earlier.  “Hello, Agent Chang, Agent Schbeiker.  Won’t you join us?”

I inclined my head, acquiescing.  Schbeiker dropped her keys on the sidebar, draped her jacket over an armchair, and claimed the seat beside the foreign minister.  Yukitani glanced between Winner and myself.

“Wufei,” Winner began, standing, “it looks like we have a few minutes before the food is brought in…”

I reached for the door and held it open in silence.  I was not going to have this discussion with him here of all places.  We walked in silence down the length of the hall until we came to an open sitting area beside the main staircase.  The sun was setting beyond the high windows.

I remained silent for a moment, wondering if Winner had concocted some sort of speech he was eager to recite, but he simply stood next to me, his hands in his trouser pockets, and waited for me admit to what had so offended me.

“Why did you choose Yukitani?” I finally managed.  Hearing the words spoken aloud unfurled a thin, angry ribbon within me and, before he could respond, I growled, “And don’t insult me by looking surprised that I would ask.”

Winner nodded.  “I’m not surprised.  Relieved, actually.  It took you long enough to say something.”

“What?”

He gave me a long look.  “I didn’t choose Gerald over you because he was a better friend.”

I felt my lip curl into a sneer.

“This was not a competition,” Winner continued.  “I didn’t choose Gerald because he was a better man, either.”

I snorted and turned my attention to the sunset.  “That is not—”

“And I didn’t choose Gerald because he was a better agent.”

“Of course you didn’t!” I snapped.  “We’re virtually interchangeable!”  Which was the whole point!  If Yuy had been the clear choice, I wouldn’t have had to ask.

“No, you’re not,” Winner insisted quietly.  “Gerald was a good agent.  He always did the right thing, but quietly and behind the scenes.  You, on the other hand…  If someone is wrong, you are the first to call them on it.  You work for justice and peace at the top of your lungs, even when you don’t say a word.  You are not the lone wolf you believe yourself to be, Wufei.  You are a leader and I had to give you the chance to become that man.  The Preventers is the best place for you, the right place for you, and they will need you in the future.”

I stared at him.  Gaped, even.  One by one, moment by moment, everything became clearer:

I recalled the director’s visit to my hospital room and her disappointment in my mediocre professional performance.  It now made a certain kind of sense from this point of view.  At the time, I’d been furious with her for holding me and my actions to an impossible standard, but she’d been pushing me intentionally.  The director knew I was capable of more.  She was simply trying to make me see it.

I thought of the senior agents’ meeting earlier this very day.  She hadn’t been irritated or even surprised by my observation.  In fact, she had included it among the objectives of the investigation.  She had considered my input as if it had come from a colleague rather than a subordinate.

I had a very real future with the Preventers.  Why had my eyes been closed to this?

I blinked and Winner’s proud smile came into focus.

“There.  That’s the Chang Wufei we all know.”

I had no response to that except to acknowledge the truth of it.

“And you’re going to do great things, my friend.”  He extended his hand to me.

I grasped it.  “I thank you, Quatre Raberba Winner.”

“Don’t thank me for your accomplishments,” he chided kindly.  “We’re just trying to stay out of your way.”

And I respected that.  I respected him and Yukitani.  I even respected myself.

I swallowed thickly.  It had been several very long months since I’d felt this centered.  I spared a thought for regret; I could have – should have – discerned all of this myself.  The evidence had been there, right in front of me, but I hadn’t seen it.

I was seeing it now, however.  And that was something far more worthy of my focus.

Winner and I both turned at the sound of footsteps.  From the third floor kitchen, which supplied the occupants of the residential wing with meals, two uniformed staff wheeled a service cart toward the foreign minister’s apartment.  Though I knew that Maxwell and Barton were still on the premises and likely still conducting intensive surveillance, I studied the face of each server carefully.  I recognized them and recalled the details that their background checks had revealed.  It was unlikely that they were a threat.

I was not satisfied with that vague generalization, but until we had evidence to investigate, there was little to be done.  Life must continue on.

“I’m sure you’ll get a lead soon,” Winner said with confidence in that damned infallible tone of his.

I was not inclined to allow him to soothe my nerves with regards to this.  “We shall see what a thorough review of the surveillance reveals.”

He nodded amicably.  “It was a good thing you trusted your instincts today.”

“Have they ever steered us wrong?”

“Instinct?  No.  No, I don’t believe so.”

Misinformation, however, was another story entirely.  With no information – misleading or otherwise – to consider, there was no reason for Winner and myself to delay our return.

Dinner was pleasant.  Far more pleasant than I would have thought possible a week previous.  Winner spoke of his plans to attend the grand opening ceremony of the Earth Sphere United Nation’s newest colony.

Which wasn’t actually new at all.  It was my colony – my home – rebuilt down to the last park bench and dumpling shop.

“I’ve also arranged my schedule to attend,” the foreign minister volunteered.  “Though I haven’t yet submitted a request for Preventer agents to accompany my assistant and myself.”

“Oh, I’m sure the director will find someone,” Schbeiker remarked.  Her gaze didn’t shift in my direction, but it didn’t have to.  I knew she fully intended to apply for the assignment.  As her partner, it would be assumed that I would go as well.  I scowled at my water glass as ghosts found their way into the room, hovering just beyond my field of vision.

“Well, it will be wonderful to see a friendly face there,” Winner charmed her and then his eyes sparkled with mirth.  “I don’t suppose your assistant will have an evening off?”

Schbeiker snorted with amusement.  “I guess your face isn’t friendly enough, foreign minister.”

Relena ignored the jibe.  “Quatre Winner, are you finally going to ask Sylvia out on a date?”

“If I am?”

Relena bit her lip in an attempt to contain a large smile.  “At the very least, it will clear up the rumor that you and Agent Chang are on the verge of resolving your lover’s spat.”

I coughed.  “What—”  I coughed again.  Damn it all to shame and cowardice, how could I be choking on my own breath?  I finally grated out, “What is this nonsense?”

“Really, Relena,” Quatre chided her.  “You ought to be able to see past all that.  Wufei and I are as in love as ever.”

I snarled, “A misleading albeit accurate statement.  Don’t point that idiotic grin at me, Winner.  I am not amused.”

“Explains why Slyvia was so leery around you,” Yuy muttered between bites.

I supposed it did.  “If Winner has caught her eye, then she’s more than welcome to him.”

“You don’t mean that!” the man had the gall to protest complete with wounded expression.

“Perhaps not,” I conceded.  “I can only imagine how much more nauseatingly optimistic you’ll be on the throes of new love.”

He smirked.  “How kind of you to notice.”

I blinked, glanced at Yuy who offered a slight shrug of confirmation, and then I regarded Winner critically.  Did he indeed feel genuinely fond of the woman?  If so— “You have my blessing to court her to your heart’s contentment.”

With that, I resolved to discontinue my participation in the topic.  Thankfully, Yuy spoke up and offered an update on Mia Une.  Mia Une – formerly Mariemeia Khushrenada – and Yuy still exchanged letters.  Weekly by the sheer volume of content the man was able to report on.

“The Matraball will be held soon,” Relena mused aloud.  “Has Mia mentioned attending?”

“No.”

I smirked at Yuy’s curt tone.  He wasn’t answering the foreign minister’s question – he was refusing the one that was sure to follow.

“You might volunteer to accompany her,” the woman predictably mused.

“She’s fifteen years old,” Yuy replied flatly. 

I had been wed even younger than Mia was now, but I did not volunteer this.  Not even to watch Yuy twitch, which would have been extremely entertaining.

“I’ve instructed her on how to incapacitate an assailant,” Yuy admitted and I swiftly turned my thoughts away from the past.

I drawled, “Clearly, that’s something she’ll find far more beneficial than your presence.”

Yuy stiffened; the blow had found its intended mark.  When I’d last seen the girl, she’d been twelve years old and irresistibly charming.  I could only imagine how those qualities must have matured over the past three years.

“She trusts you,” I stated.  “Be there for her.”

I did not have to remind him of the less than savory motivations others might have, be those individuals pimply, pubescent males or unscrupulous, ambitious politicians.  As far as I knew, the director’s adoption of Khushrenada’s daughter was a matter of public record.

“I am there for her,” he retorted and the subject was closed much to Schbeiker’s dismay.  She pouted until the dessert course was served.  I barely glanced at the concoction before sliding it wordlessly in her direction.

She smiled but didn’t thank me.  Yuy’s brows lifted as he noticed the exchange and then his lips quirked into something that might have been a smile.  After years of working side-by-side, the man knew that I would never accept thanks for something that was done out of reason rather than kindness: I was more than content with my cup of tea and had no intention of eating anything sweet.  If I didn’t give it to Schbeiker, it would simply go to waste.

Schbeiker, it seemed, had already deduced the same.

Yuy gave me a nod, which I returned.  It was unspoken, but I understood immediately: he was wishing my new partner and myself the best.  Though my blessing to Winner on the courtship of Sylvia Noventa had been mocking and irrelevant, Yuy’s blessing for Schbeiker and myself was both sincere and appreciated.

As Master Long had told me countless times in my youth: life is change.

Perhaps I was finally ready to accept that truth gracefully.

Yuy and Winner departed shortly thereafter – they had an evening flight to Washington D.C. before they would be returning to space – and I fully intended to depart just as soon as I’d finished my tea.  I would undoubtedly need the caffeine for the journey home.

“Hold up, partner,” Schbeiker said as she sensed that I was about to excuse myself.  She glanced at the foreign minister, who hesitated the briefest of moments before nodding.  “There’s something I— _we_ want you to know.”

I held up a hand to forestall the confession I was reasonably certain was coming.  I glanced from one of Schbeiker’s haphazardly abandoned personal items to the next, ending with a knowing look at both women.

“There’s no need to explain.  Thank you for inviting me into your home,” I told them, looking from one woman to the other.

They undoubtedly had good reasons for keeping their relationship a secret – the director would never allow Schbeiker to join the foreign minister’s detail if she were aware of it – but it was not my place to judge.  It never had been and never would be.

“Take care of each other,” I said, hoping that neither would be as foolish as I had been all those years ago.  If words could wound, then perhaps they could also enable; Maxwell and Barton had clearly taken the same advice to heart.  Perhaps it was presumptuous of me to feel gratified by their success, but I was pleased on their behalf nonetheless.

“Hot damn,” Schbeiker mused with a wide grin.  “When did you figure it out?”

I smirked behind the rim of my tea cup.  “The night of Wilhelm’s first little correspondence.  You left your briefcase, which contained your laptop and confidential files, in a heap next to the front door.  That is not something one does anywhere except in one’s own home.”

Schbeiker glanced at the foreign minister, offering a sheepish expression.  Relena merely smiled and reached out to give her hand a quick squeeze.

It was getting late and, though I was no longer tired, I truly did desire solitude.  It had been a genuinely long day. 

“I wish you both every happiness,” I concluded, setting my empty cup down and rising from the table to see myself out.

“Er, speaking of happiness,” Schbeiker began, standing and pulling the foreign minister to her feet.

I stopped and turned, uncertain that I would thank her for what she was about to say, but allowing that it was important to her to utter it.

“It’s about more than just the two of us taking care of each other,” she tried to explain, pausing to chew her lip as she searched for her next words.

“We take care of our _family,”_ Relena finished.  She rounded the table and held her hand out to me.

For the second time in as many hours, I gaped in silence.

Schbeiker joined Relena’s side and nodded in response to the question I had no words to articulate.

“Don’t deny it, Chang.  I can tell you’ve always wanted a couple of sisters to harass you.”

I lifted a brow.  “Is that what this is?”

Relena nodded, hand still outstretched.  “We’d like it if you’d allow us to consider you our brother, Wufei.”

“We’re not trying to pull anything kinky,” Schbeiker added, lifting her hands in a universal gesture of good faith.  “We just really want you to be a part of our family.  If you want that, too.”

I supposed I just might.  Perhaps.  Still, I hesitated.

“You know, you’d make some lucky kid a really great dad—” Schbeiker suddenly said.

“Hilsie!” Relena hissed.  _“Now_ is the best time to bring this up?”

“Yes,” Schbeiker resolutely stated.  “It is.  Family’s important to you, isn’t Wufei?  It’s important to us, too.  It’s what we want.  They could be _our_ kids if you’re open to that.”

Relena looked braced for an explosion of impressive magnitude, but Schbeiker was correct.  Somehow over the past three days, she had sussed out my views on the subject.  Was she also familiar with the traditions of my people?  My marriage to Meiran had been a typical one: negotiated by our families and arranged by the elders to ensure the continued bloodline of the clan. 

For the past eight years, I’d abandoned even the thought of having a family.  What could one lone man bring to such a venture?  But here, now, two women were offering me a chance to contribute to their family.  The burdens of providing financially for children would not fall solely upon my shoulders.  Nor would I be expected to offer emotional support exclusively to a wife.

I confirmed, “Fatherhood – rearing children – without the demands of cohabiting with a spouse?  That… is appealing,” I admitted.  In addition, raising children with these two strong, honorable women would be a privilege.

I reached out and finally accepted Relena’s hand.

Schbeiker leaned forward and punched my arm.

“There’s no rush,” Relena added, but her smile was luminous.

“I will insist on a medical procedure,” I warned them both.  “None of this kissing nonsense—”

Schbeiker threw her arms around me and placed a messy, wet kiss on my cheek.

“—control yourself, woman!” I scolded, but my free arm was already coming up to give her shoulder a brief squeeze.

“We’ll all have a contract drawn up beforehand,” Relena assured me and that _was_ comforting.  A partnership such as this without a contract was like a shuttle without a heatshield.

Schbeiker stepped back and looked at me with teary eyes and a smile that she couldn’t bite back.  It stretched literally from ear to ear.

“I’ll see you at the office tomorrow morning,” I told her.  “800 hours, Schbeiker.”

“You better believe it, Chang.”

“Good night, Relena,” I said.

“Good night, Wufei.”

The sound of the door closing quietly behind me was especially loud in the empty hall.  Loud, but not final.  I felt my lips curve into a smile.  When I picked up my feet, it did not feel as if I were pushing against the past.

In my pocket, my phone buzzed once.  I checked the number and made my way to the office that Maxwell and Barton were still utilizing.  Mindful of Barton’s discomfort, I knocked once upon the door, softly.

Maxwell answered and gestured me within.  He hovered beside the threshold, obviously unwilling to invite me deeper into the room.  As Barton was likely still recovering, I respected Maxwell’s unvoiced request.

I could hear someone moving about in the side room, perhaps packing up their unused equipment. 

“Look, man,” Maxwell started awkwardly, “you should know… you have brothers, too.”

Fury overcame me.  An angry breath surged into my lungs, burning me from within.

Maxwell held up his hands.  “I’m not sorry about eavesdropping – neither of us are,” he admitted for both himself and Barton.  “We worry about you, OK?  And we wanted you to know that we know.  Just in case you need to… I dunno… _not_ be alone with it.”

I let out my breath warily.  “This is not a lecture.”  It was nearly a question rather than an observation.

“Well, it sort of is.  I mean, if you’re a shit to Hilde, I’m gonna be duty-bound to kick your ass.”

“You and whose—”

He lifted a hand and mutely pointed to the next room and the former mercenary within.

“Ah.  Point taken.”  I glanced around, noting that the monitors were still set up but much of the other equipment had been removed from the tables.

“We’ll be gone by dawn,” Maxwell promised.

“Off to Egypt?”

“No.  Not… not this time.”

There was no regret in Maxwell’s posture or tone, but there was a stubborn tilt to his head and a hard glint in his eyes.  His response confirmed my suspicions: Egypt had not been a vacation destination for them.  It was work.  It was more of what they did in anonymity for the Preventer teams that flew out and landed in enemy territory under their watch.

“Don’t,” I urged him.  “Submit what you have to Intel and Operations anonymously.”

Maxwell snorted out a cynical breath.  “Yeah, right.”

He knew as well as I did that there was no such thing as an anonymous source.  All sources could and would be traced and identified.

I sighed.  I was loathe to allow myself to get dragged into this mess-in-the-making, but I could not in good conscience let them continue on as they have been.  “There’s also such a thing called a confidential informant.”

Surprisingly, he didn’t shrug the offer away.  “We’ll think about it.”

 _We._   It boggled my mind that Maxwell’s first instinct was to speak in the plural.

“In the meantime, here’s a freebie.  Camera 116-H, time stamp 10:28, upper right.”

I felt my pulse pick up.

“There’s no clear view of her face,” Maxwell warned me, confirming my suspicion that he and Barton had finally located the female suspect, “not even our cameras can help ya out there – so get your ass to the sketch artist a.s.a.p.  But she’s got a cluster of small birthmarks below her left ear on the side of her neck.”

Well.  It was a place to start at least.

“Thank you,” I told him.  “Thank you both.”

Maxwell rocked back on his heels in a full-body shrug.  “You’d do the same for us.”

I did not deny it.  “Look after yourselves.”

“Always.”  Maxwell’s gaze slid in the direction of his absent spouse and I saw pure need transform the man’s face.  Maxwell would rather die than allow today’s events to be repeated.  Somehow, the devil-may-care rebel-in-black from the war had grown into a man who needed his partner – needed Barton in the same way that he needed to eat, to sleep, to breathe.  Maxwell – the most obstinate and evasive of all of us – had accepted the fact that he was half of a whole, a part of something much greater than himself.

I did not expect that I would ever form that type of connection with another person, would ever evolve to need one and only one being in my life.  The very thought was daunting.  Unsettling.  Unsatisfactory.

Looking at what Maxwell and Barton had together, I could see that I did not want the same.  However, I did want to be part of a family.  Brothers and sisters and children and traditions.  Checking homework at the table after the supper dishes had been cleared away.  Tying shoelaces and zipping up jumpers.  Afternoons spent on a park bench at the fringe of a playground.

For the first time in more years than I cared to acknowledge, I was looking ahead to the future with a sense of contentment rather than resignation.

“Cross,” I said, drawing the man’s attention.  I held out my hand.  “It was… an adventure.  As always.”

The ache in the man’s face disappeared beneath a wide grin.  He took my hand in a firm grip.  “I think I just heard you use capitals, man.  Way to go!”

With a shake of my head, I left.

Though I wanted to go home – wanted to bathe and then sleep well into next week – I returned to the office and volunteered to assist with the security footage review.  I started with the cameras in zone 115 and worked my way up.  An hour later, I pointed out the suspect.  She was precisely where Maxwell had said she’d be.  Then I sat with the on-duty sketch artist.

Then I went home.

I ate the last of Barton’s fried rice, washed the foreign minister’s makeup off of my face, and fell into bed with all the grace of Maxwell after a wrestling match with Yuy.

I slept for ten hours and then I went back to work.

Schbeiker and I were assigned to the investigation into the attempted bombing of the Peace Building, but evidence was slim.  Our suspect had never been arrested – a search of the database revealed no one with a birthmark pattern identical to hers.  There were no other indications that she’d infiltrated the summit before that fateful morning; she had waited for the Preventers to order Sylvia to steer clear of the foreign minister before making her move.  Which suggested that she – or her group – had had some hand in encouraging our suspicions in the first place.

I had not seen this level of detail in an op since Operation: Meteor.

The very thought of someone other than the five of us being capable of such a layered and delicately balanced mission was more than enough cause for concern.

The case remained open.

When Schbeiker mentioned the trip to L5 that the foreign minister was planning, I did not object to accompanying her.

The shuttle ride was long.  There was some confusion at docking and our ship was shunted from one port to another until at last we could disembark.

I was home.

I was home, but not to stay.  No, this place, though built to the same design as the colony that I’d grown up on, was different in subtle ways.  It was like a dream in which one’s memories are warped through the lens of a racing mind.  It was a relief, in a way, that the past could not superimpose itself on the present.

The day of our arrival, Miss Noventa had the evening off and was likely being entertained by Winner.  I’d left Schbeiker and the foreign minister to their own devices.  Perhaps Yuy was getting caught up on his correspondence with Mia Une.  I spent the hours bracketing artificial dusk wandering the streets, looking into the fresh faces of the new colonists.

The ceremony was held at noon the following day and the streets were crowded with celebrants and vendors.  There was music and there were streamers.

I didn’t stay for the festivities.

I went to the field of flowers that had somehow escaped the development ambitions of the space architect.  The knoll I’d sat upon with my dying wife was gone.  Shifted.  But that didn’t matter.  I chose another and sank down into the too-short grass, sitting beside flowers that were too small and pale compared to those in my memory.

I sat and closed my eyes.  At once, everything was precisely as it should be.  Even the soft breeze that had carried away her final breath.

It was time for me to release her.  It was time for me to free my family and let them move beyond to the place they were meant to be.  It was time for the dead to rest.  Their memory would not be extinguished, for I would tell my children their stories.  The past would no longer torment me.  Instead, it would guide me.

 _Meiran, be with me always,_ I implored. 

Not for my own sake, but for the sake of the future generations to come.  My children.  Our children.  The children of our clan. 

I opened my eyes and regarded the rolling field before me, awed by what it embodied.  This was not an end.  It was a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you think I’ve written a het!Wufei here, lemme just say: a person can be any sexual orientation in the known universe and still choose to have children. “Tag” isn’t about Wufei finding happiness in an exclusive sexual partnership (which he may yet do in TooT-verse… when or if he decides he’s ready for that). “Tag” is about Wufei finding a family to come home to – homecoming – building a foundation from which to finally launch yourself into all that you want your life to be.
> 
> Is TooT!Wufei gay? For that matter, is Duo? Is Trowa? I NEVER REALLY SAY – and this is the whole point of the relationship-side of the fic – it doesn’t matter what your sexual orientation is as long as you’re happy with the people you allow close to you, as long as those people give you what you need to be a better version of yourself. Also, regarding “Tag” specifically, I wanted to explore the idea that sex may not necessarily be a facet of a happy life.
> 
> In summary: I have no comment at this time about Wufei’s sex-life.
> 
> I do, however, have more to show-and-tell about Duo and Trowa's... so keep an eye open for that. (^_~)
> 
> Relena and Hilde do have their own private home, but I had to bring everyone back to the Peace Building for dinner so that Duo and Trowa could eavesdrop. It's been a must-have-scene since I started writing this thing. So. There ya go.
> 
> Regarding technical things, I know nothing about bombs aside from random ideas I’ve gathered from TV crime dramas. And can you blame me for being a little leery of Googling this kind of thing? So, be kind to me on the bomb-details front, m’kay?
> 
> Who is this mystery woman who is not-Sylvia? Hopefully, we’ll find out in another Duo/Trowa POV fic. Stay tuned for that and other continuations! I hope you’ll take a few moments to let me know how you liked Tag. (^_^)


End file.
